City of Bones Jace PoV
by catalystkrish
Summary: "I know you, Jace. You never slip." "I may not slip, but I can fall." City of Bones, in the point of view of the inscrutable Jace Wayland.
1. Chapter 1

Bright green eyes, like little lights, cutting sharply through the swirling smoke. His hair was electric blue, gelled into spikes, the only abnormal thing about him. His skin was pale and covered in a sheen of sweat, just like a regular mundie. But the long, razor sharp blade in his hand spoke otherwise.

An Eidolon demon, noted Jace Wayland. Shape-shifter. Hard to spot, especially in public places. But easy to kill, not worth much. Still, it was a demon and had to be disposed of. The catching would be the hard part.

But that was what Isabelle Lightwood was for. Her dress, bell-sleeved and the color of ivory, shone through the dim lighting like a beacon. The fabric was fine and delicate, but still opaque enough to hide from view the Marks that covered her limbs. The red pendant at her throat pulsed with a scarlet glow, drawing attention to her like moths to a lamp. There was no way the demon would miss her. She would be an excellent meal.

"Come on," Jace murmured. His _parabatai,_ Alec Lightwood, glanced over at him.

"But the demon isn't following-no, he is." whispered Alec as he peered between the dancing mundies at Isabelle and the Eidolon. "They're going to that storage room over there. Do you have your knife, Jace?"

In one smooth motion Jace flicked a seraph blade from his belt and held it up. The silvery surface caught the light and sent rays of red and green and neon pink dancing through the air. It would've drawn attention to them, if not for the fact that both boys had glamour runes inked on their arms.

They began to move across the floor, weaving through the crowd with the smooth, slinking grace that came naturally to Shadowhunters. Jace held the blade loosely, running his finger over the edge lightly as he followed the demon away from the mundanes and into the storage room.

The room was dark, almost pitch-black. Wires were strewn across the floor, the thin snakes. A small shaft of light that came from the bottom door crack cast eerie shadows over the cement walls. In the center of the room stood Isabelle and the demon, making small talk. A crooked smile stole over Jace's lips as he listened in.

"What's your name?" That was the demon, his face dimly lit by moonlight from the barred windows.

"Isabelle." Her voice was smooth, soft, seductive. There was an undercurrent of amusement to her tone, almost undistinguishable. She was enjoying this, the last few moments of the charade before it came to time for the demon to go home.

He walked towards her, carefully avoiding the wires on the ground. "That's a nice name." He paused and smiled at her, obviously relishing the angelically beautiful sight of her seemingly defenceless before him. "I haven't seen you here before."

Classic, thought Jace wryly. The classic line. Almost boring, but he had to admit that it usually worked. He'd used the line before at nightclubs on unsuspecting mundies. But Isabelle knew what was going on, and was far from unsuspecting.

"You're asking me if I come here often?" She let out a soft giggle, covering her mouth with one slim hand. The action pulled her sleeve from her wrist, exposing pale skin covered in the black ink of her Marks. The charade was up.

The demon tried speaking, opening and closing his mouth like a fish as he stumbled back. But Isabelle was too fast; striking him to shake his balance and sending him sprawling with pain as her electrum whip coiled around his ankle. Agony twisted his features grotesquely.

"He's all yours, boys."

The words. Jace relished the sound of them as he rose from his hiding place and caught the demon's shoulders in his hands. His fingers twisted into the fabric of the Eidolon's jacket and he hauled the creature upright, dragging him to a stone pillar and securing him with wire.

Pain. Clear and sharp, visible in every part of the demon but mostly in his eyes. It shone out and Jace loved it, loved the look so much. The best part of being a Shadowhunter was victory.

"So, are there any more of you?"

"Any other what?" It was cute, it really was. The fact that even now the demon was denying what he was. Face-to-face with his enemy and lying about the obvious.

"Come on, now." Jace held up his hands. The black sleeves, made of the fabric that all Shadowhunters used for hunting, slipped down. Black lines of ink marked his hands, arms, wrists. The demon flinched at the sight of them, and Jace grinned a toothy smile. "You know what I am."

" _Shadowhunter."_ The Eidolon forced the word through his teeth, layering hatred over every syllable. He was trapped and he knew it. It was over.

And that was when the trouble started.

"So," Jace said, folding his arms over his chest. He made sure to keep his eyes on the demon, watching every move. Deliberating was fun, but dangerous. "You still haven't told me if there are any other of your kind with you."

The Eidolon was sulking, his ego bruised. "I don't know what you're talking about," he muttered.

Alec spoke up finally. "He means other demons." There was a sarcastic lilt to his tone that sent a smile across Jace's lips. "You _do_ know what a demon is, don't you?"

The demon turned away, mouth working. He had the familiar tells of an Eidolon in mundane form: unusually arching eyebrows, slightly transparent skin, abnormal eye color. In his case, the iris of the eyes was a brilliant green, antifreeze color. Here, in a club of the 21st century, these did not stand out. If anything, they were common-place, something that made it all the more harder to catch the devil spawn.

Jace smiled lazily, drinking up the demon's discomfort. Let him writhe in pain. Let him feel the consequences for leaving his dead world and occupying a living one, one where he was not welcome. "Demons." He traced the accursed word in the air with a finger, and loops and curves for dramatic effect. All of this was for dramatic effect.

"Religiously defined as hell's denizens, the servants of Satan, but understood here, for the purposes of the Clave, to be any malevolent spirit whose origin is outside our own home dimension-"

Isabelle frowned at him, clearly disapproving of the way he carried on. "That's _enough,_ Jace."

Alec, ever the responsible and practical one, nodded his head in agreement. "Isabelle's right," he said, pursing his lips at Jace. "Nobody here needs a lesson in semantics - or demonology." Sometimes, Alec was annoying.

They were right, though. He did get carried away sometimes. Entirely understandable, of course. He was not _a_ Shadowhunter, he was _the_ Shadowhunter. Best of the lot. Who could blame him for spreading his fame among the n'ere living? "Isabelle and Alec think I talk too much," Jace told the demon. He kept his tone mockingly confiding, as if sharing a great secret. "Do _you_ think I talk too much?"

The demon was thinking fast, trying to buy time. The familiar look of desperation was crossing his features. "I could give you information," he burst out. "I-I know where Valentine is."

Scorn rose up inside Jace. The name was a cursed one, and shameful to every Shadowhunter who heard it. For the old, it meant memories of a bloody war that tore the Clave in half. For the young, it meant a threat, hovering just out of sight. Quirking his lip disdainfully, he glanced back at Alec for a moment. His _parabatai_ shrugged, slightly uncomfortable. Maryse and Robert Lightwood had been part of Valentine's Circle, and it still embarrassed Alec.

"Valentine's in the ground," Jace said. "The thing's just toying with us." As all demon's like to do.

Isabelle tossed her hair with a look of scorn. She didn't have as close of a relationship with her parents as Alec did, and considered their treachery nothing more than a dark, cloudy history, something found in old dusty textbooks. "Kill it, Jace," she said. "It's not going to tell us anything."

The fun little game they'd been playing was up. It was time to take care of business and leave. Jace flicked his wrist and the seraph blade he'd been concealing appeared in his hand. The red stones on the hilt glittered like fire in the light of the pale moon. The blade was translucent and clear as a crystal. The adamas shone with a silvery sheen in the dim light.

The demon let out a strangled sound of panic, a sort of cross between a gasp and a yell. It was a desperate sound, the sound of someone who was trapped in the most frightening moment of their life. "Valentine is back!" he cried out, tugging frantically at his bonds. "All the Infernal Worlds know it - I know it - I can tell you where he is-"

Jace had had enough. The demon's always brought up Valentine, offering an exchange of lies for their life. Every single time. "By the Angel, every time we catch one of you bastards-" -Alec flinched- "-you claim you know where Valentine is." He regarded the demon scornfully, turning the seraph blade over. The moonlight caught the edge of the blade and made it spark like a line of fire. "Well, we know where he is too. He's in hell. And you-" He smirked. "You can _join him there."_

"Stop!" a strange voice cried. "You can't do this!"

Shock fairly slammed into Jace, practically knocking the wind from his lungs. The seraph blade slipped from his grip and clattered against the floor, spinning away from him. At first he thought it was another Shadowhunter. But that was ridiculous; they three were the only New York Shadowhunters, the only occupants of the NY Institute other than Hodge. It couldn't be a foreign Shadowhunter, because they'd have received notice. Besides, it was a girl's voice, with a slight New York accent.

Alec spoke first, his tone indignant and demanding. "What's this?" He looked at Isabelle and Jace as if they might know what was going on.

Jace regained his composure quickly and focused on the newcomer. She was small, with thick coppery curls and pale skin. Didn't look like the type that came to the club; fairly normal, wearing white midi-shorts and a purple T-shirt. Her eyes were a bright, vivid green, like emeralds or jade. Her small fists were clenched, whether in fear or anger Jace didn't know. What struck him was the fact that she was so tiny, a little red-headed bundle of fire. A little girl, maybe fourteen or less.

"It's a girl," he said finally. "Surely you've seen girls before, Alec. Your sister Isabelle is one." He took a step towards the girl, examining her. She was shaking slightly, as if she realized how much she was out of her depth. "A mundie girl," he murmured, half in shock and half in slight awe. "And she can _see_ us."

She frowned at him. "Of _course_ I can see you," she said. "I'm not blind, you know."

Jace suddenly wanted to burst out laughing. The way she said was hilarious, so self-confident when in reality she had no idea. "Oh, but you are," he said, smirking as he picked up his knife. "You just don't know it." He cocked his head and observed her for a moment. "You'd better get out of here, if you know what's good for you."

She scowled. "I'm not going anywhere." There was a haughty tone to her voice that challenged him, something that hadn't happened for a long time. He found himself enjoying the verbal fight. "If I do, you'll kill him." She pointed at the Eidolon, who was watching her appraisingly.

Jace twirled the knife between his fingers. He was showing off to her and he knew it. _Why_ was what he didn't know. "That's true. What do you care if I kill him or not?"

The girl seemed startled. "Be-because-" she spluttered. "You can't just go around killing people."

"You're right," he said, spreading his hands wide. The seraph blade glinted in the moonlight and reflected in the girl's clear, bright eyes. "You can't go around killing _people."_ He pointed towards the demon, who was still watching them closely. "That is not a person, little girl." He spoke the words scornfully, showing her how superior he was to her. "It may look like a person and talk like a person and maybe even bleed like a person. But it's a monster."

Isabelle shot him a warning look. She and Alec had not yet lowered their respective weapons, unsure of the girl's identity and intentions. " _Jace,"_ she hissed. "That's _enough."_

The girl was regarding them all with a sort of disgusted fear, the kind of fear one has when approached with mad people. "You're crazy," she spat, backing away from him. "I-I've called the police, you know. They'll be here any second."

Jace cursed inwardly. The police were a nuisance. Always asking questions and giving suspicious looks. If they girl was telling the truth, which he suspected she wasn't, then they'd have to get the job done quickly.

"She's lying," Alec said, but it mostly sounded like he was convincing himself. "Jace, do you-"

At the moment, the Eidolon tore himself free of his bonds and launched himself at Jace. For such a small demon, he sure weighed a lot. The two rolled on the ground, grappling. The demon tore at his chest with razor-sharp finger, sending pain shooting in sparks all over his body. Blood wet his hands, warm and wet. The demon slashed at Jace's face and he just managed to fend off the blow with a raised arm. The claws raked his arm, leaving deep cuts that throbbed and stung. Blood splattered everywhere.

The demon lunged again, claws outstretched, but at the last minute rolled away with a pained shriek. Isabelle's whip rose for another strike and Jace took advantage of the demon's preoccupied state. He rolled to the side and sprang up, ignoring the pain in his chest and his arm. Nothing an _iratze_ couldn't heal. He picked up his seraph blade and plunged it into the demon's chest, sending a fountain of black blood spurting into the air. The demon gurgled and twisted, writhing in pain.

Jace rose, grimacing. He glanced down at the twisted form at his feet and felt a grim triumph feel his veins with warmth. He bent and pulled the knife from the boyd. It slid easily out and dripped black blood on the concrete floor. The demon's eyes flickered open. Pain was clear in them, agony in every vein. His eyes were red with hatred. " _So be it,"_ he snarled. " _The Forsaken will take you all."_

He felt a shiver of dread at that. What could the cursed creature mean? But Alec and Isabelle were watching him, waiting, so he snarled the last

words. " _Redeunt unde venisti." Go back from whence you came._

The demon's body seemed to fold in on itself, becoming smaller and smaller until it disappeared altogether. Alec rushed to Jace's side, concern etched in his face. "Are you okay?"

"I'll be fine," Jace muttered, shoving Alec's arm away. "All I need is an _iratze."_

Alec fumbled in his pockets for his stele. "Do you want me to draw it? My stele's here somewhere-"

"Not," interrupted Jace, "In front of her."

Alec stopped short and cast a glance back, where the girl stood pinned in place by Isabelle's whip. "Stupid little mundie," Isabelle was saying. "You could've gotten Jace killed."

"He's crazy," said the girl, trying to pull the whip from her wrist. "You're _all_ crazy. What do you think you are, vigilante killers? The police-"

Back to the imaginary police officers again. "The police aren't usually interested unless you can produce a body," Jace told her. He picked his way cautiously across the wire-strewn floor towards the girl. Now that he was closer to her, he could see that there was a certain innocence about her, a certain charm the coupled well with her petite features. She was, in a way, pretty.

She glanced at the spot where the demon had been and her eyes widened. Jace smiled. "They return to their home dimensions when they die. In case you were wondering."

Alec drew in a sharp breath. "Jace," he hissed warningly. "Be careful."

Jace drew his arm away from his face and studied the girl. She was intelligent, it was visible in the way she held herself, the way she spoke. She knew about them, knew their names, their kind. Knew about demons and Shadowhunters and seraph blades and God knows what else. "She can see us, Alec," he said softly. "She already knows too much."

"So?" Isabelle demanded loudly. "What do you want me to do with her?"

So many choices. Injure her, knock her unconscious, threaten her, wipe her memory. His answer surprised them all. "Let her go."

That was the first time Jace's heart made a decision for him, and it would certainly not be the last.


	2. Chapter 2

"Well," said Alec. "That was interesting."

The three of them were walking home to the Institute, and the one thing on their minds was the girl.

"A mundie," mused Jace. "I still can't believe it. A mundie able to see through a glamour. It's as unlikely as Isabelle cooking good food."

Isabelle huffed at him. "My food isn't _that_ bad, Wayland. And besides, she was the only witness. Who'd believe her anyways? She looks like a freaking thirteen-year-old."

Jace wiped sweat from his forehead. Summer nights in New York often reached ungodly temperatures. "Still, it's something to worry about," he said.

"I vote we tell Hodge."

"Yeah, well, Alec and I vote no. Sorry, Jace, overruled."

Alec frowned. "Hey!"

Isabelle took no notice of her older brother, as usual. "Maybe she's just, I don't know, extra perceptive?"

"Imagine if all mundies became that perceptive. We'd be ruined. Everything the Clave has built, everything the Law has upheld, it'll all be for nothing. No, she's not a regular mundie. There's something special about her, and I'm telling you, we need to tell Hodge. He can decide what to do."

They turned a corner and the cathedral that housed the Institute rose into view. Isabelle heaved a sigh. "I just don't-"

Jace snapped. "Isabelle!" he said, his voice slightly louder and harsher than he'd intended. Both Alec and Isabelle looked at him, startled. "Look," he said, lowering his voice, "This is important. She's important. I know it. My instincts are better than your's and you _know_ it." He regretted the last words as soon as he said them. Both Lightwoods flinched. It was no small secret that Jace was a more accomplished Shadowhunter than them.

"Well," said Alec, raising his hands in a sign of surrender. "If you feel that strongly about it..."

They continued walking in silence until they reached the doors. Jace laid his hand against the wood and a loud clicking noise sounded from behind the doors, like a series of locks unlatching. The doors swung inwards to admit them and the familiar scent of musty old books and metal rushed out in a wave of cool air to greet them.

The door shut behind them with a great clang and almost at once the tension eased. Jace ran a hand through his golden hair and stripped off his shirt. Rivers of blood slid down his torso and dripped to the floor.

Isabelle drew in a sharp breath. Alec pulled out his stele and pushed Jace to the ground gently. "Do you want me to do this in the infirmary?" he asked.

"Goddamn it, Lightwood, just get the job done," Jace snarled, his body tensing with the pain. "I wanna wash up before meeting Hodge, he'll freak if he's sees me like this."

"If I see you like what?" It was Hodge, tall and gaunt, with thin gray hair and black-feathered Hugo perched on his shoulder. He surveyed the three teenagers, battered and bruised and bloody. "Well?"

Alec shifted slightly, letting Hodge see Jace. The old man gasped. "Jace!"

"Hullo, Hodge," said Jace weakly.

The tutor turned to the Lightwoods. "Get an _iratze_ on him and bring him to the library. I want a full, detailed account of what happened at the club. Sarcastic comments emitted." He turned on his heel and strode away down the hall, Hugo's soft caws echoing ominously around the foyer.

Alec hauled Jace upright. "Man," he muttered. "Are you gonna get it this time."

Hodge was waiting for them in the library, his face creased into a frown.

"You lot," he said when the three teenagers entered, "Owe me an explanation."

"About what?" asked Jace innocently. Hodge was like an overprotective grandfather; Jace was not looking forward to this at all.

"About why you came in looking like you took a bath in demon blood. About why you're covering in wounds deeper than my finger."

Alec stepped forward. "We went to Pandemonium. There were accounts of demonic activity there."

Hodge rolled his eyes. "Tell me something I don't know."

"It was an Eidolon," cut in Isabelle. "Shape-shifter. Took the form of a mundane boy. We cornered it and Jace was about to kill it when we were interrupted."

Jace took over. "It was a mundie girl, Hodge," he said quietly, leaning forward and resting his hands of Hodge's desk. "A mundie. And she could see us." Hodge looked at him, startled.

"What was her name?"

"Clary," answered Jace. "A nickname probably. For what, I don't know. But Hodge, she had perfect vision. The demon, the seraph blades, us, everything. The glamour didn't work on her. Just her."

Alec, eager to participate in the conversation, cut in. "She was a red-head, with blue eyes, Hodge."

"Green," corrected Jace. "Bright green eyes, like jade. Long lashes, curled at the tips. Her hair was more of a deep scarlet than plain red. Delicate features. Pale skin. Slender, small, five two maybe, not even."

Silence followed his words, complete disbelieving silence. Alec and Isabelle gaped at him, Hodge simply looked stunned.

"Red-hair," Hodge whispered. "Pale. Green eyes." Suddenly he lurched forward and grabbed Jace by the shoulders. "You're sure about this? Absolutely sure?"

"Yes," said Jace forcefully. He may not have remembered what he'd had for dinner that night, but the image of Clary had burned itself into his mind.

Hodge straightened up abruptly and let go of Jace. Almost as if in a dream, he stumbled over to the desk and unlocked one of the file cabinets. After searching several manila folders, he finally pulled out a picture. It was the image of a girl, sitting against the background of a large stone building that Jace recognized as the Shadowhunter Academy in Idris. But what really caught his eyes was the girl. She was the spitting image of Clary.

"That's her!" said Isabelle. "Why do you have a picture of a mundie, Hodge?"

"She's not a mundie," mumbled Hodge, still dazed. "She's-" He stopped and closed his mouth, an intense look crossing his face. Finally, he snapped back to reality. "Tomorrow," he said. "Tomorrow, Jace. You go looking for that girl, and you bring her here."

It was a beautiful morning, the summer breeze blowing the scent of flowers and coffee through the air. Perfect, really, the weather pleasantly cool but at the same time warm enough to be called summer.

What better day to go mundie hunting?

Jace fiddled with the tracker as he walked along the street. So far, Clary had done nothing but go to a Mexican restaurant since she left her house. Now, though, she was headed in the direction of a coffee shop, some insignificant little joint called Java Jones. He could understand her need for coffee; he simply couldn't function without at least two cups.

Java Jones rose into sight. It wasn't a bad-looking building, he supposed. Quaint, brownstone, one story. The sign was a little faded, but legible. The smell of coffee and pastries made his mouth water. He'd had to leave without breakfast or lunch in the morning, since Isabelle had insisted on cooking. Perhaps this mundie hunting would be fun after all.

Jace found Clary at the back of the store, seated on a loveseat with that annoying friend of hers. What was his name again? Sylvester? Sebastian? He took a closer look at the boy. Geeky, with lightly-tanned skin and dark brown hair. Ah, Simon. That was it.

Simon was in the middle of talking to Clary. "...staring at me? Have I got something on my face?"

Clary regarded him for a few moments. "Don't look now," she answered quietly. "But that blond girl over there thinks you're cute."

The idea of any girl finding a pathetic idiot like Simon attractive was laughable. The boy was more mundane than anyone he'd ever met. Even the mundie looked doubtful. "The girl in the orange top?" he asked Clary, who nodded confirmation. "What makes you think so?"

She was interrupted by a loud burst of feedback, and Jace turned towards the stage at the front of the store. Two boys were center stage. The one at the back had white blonde hair and blue eyes, which were narrowed. He was beating a drum, an African djembe, to no particular beat. The second boy stood next to a microphone. He had dull gray eyes and light brown hair, the ends of which were dyed a bright pink.

"Sorry about that, guys!" yelled Microphone Boy. He adjusted his mic, sending another shriek of feedback ringing around the room. "All right. I'm Eric, and this is my homeboy Matt on the drums. My first poem is called 'Untitled.'" His face twisted suddenly, as if he were in pain, and Jace wondered whether he'd been attacked from behind by a werewolf. Just then, something even more terrible happened.

Eric began to recite his poem.

Recite wasn't the right word, thought Jace, wincing. It was more like...wailing. " _Come, my faux juggernaut, my nefarious loins,"_ cried Eric. " _Slather every protuberance with arid zeal!"_ Great vocabulary. No meaning whatsoever. Spitting words out randomly, as predictable as the lottery. How in Heaven, Jace thought despairingly, did he land himself in this?

Clary wasn't enjoying it either. Jace took this time to study her. The darkness of Pandemonium had hidden most of her features, but now he had a clear view. She was slender and pale, with delicately defined features. Everything about her, from the slight slant of her jawbone to the high placement of her cheekbones, seemed fragile and breakable. He knew from experience that she could hold her own, though. Her curls were a vivid scarlet and tumbled like a waterfall about her shoulders. Today, she wore a light blue tank-top and the same white shorts as yesterday. Not exactly the most rave fashion, but it looked good on her. Simplicity was a beauty in itself.

What surprised him was the fact that she hadn't seen him yet. He was seated right next to the blond girl, plainly in view of Clary every time she turned around. Yet she didn't seem to acknowledge his presence, her eyes sliding right over him every time. Perhaps there was nothing special about her. Perhaps his glamour yesterday had just been too weak. He shook his head, confused. Simon, however, hadn't been able to see him. Neither had the bouncer. Perhaps Clary was a regular mundie, like Isabelle had said, with strangely heightened perception. He took another look at this fiery little fiend and ruled that option out. She _was_ special, in some way. He knew it.

Simon was speaking, and it looked like a pretty serious conversation. His face had taken on a greenish hue, as if he was about to be sick. Suddenly interested, Jace leaned forward. They were talking about relationships.

"I don't wanna ask her out because-" Simon paused, hesitant. Beads of sweat had appeared on his forehead. "Well, it wouldn't really be fair to her if I did."

Clary and the blond girl were both leaning forward to catch Simon's next words. The blond wanted gossip and confirmation for her attraction. Clary looked concerned.

"Why not?" she asked hesitantly.

Simon seriously looked as if he were about to hurl. "Because I like someone else."

From there, there were only two ways it could go. Either Simon found the courage to confess his feelings to Clary, feelings that were so utterly obvious and unrequited to Jace, or he backed off. If he backed off, everything would go back to normal. Except, of course, Simon would always feel like a coward. If he confessed, fate branched out again. Either Clary refused or she accepted. A part of Jace, a strangely large part, wanted Clary to refuse. Wanted her to shrink back from Simon's confession and scorn him and leave the shop. He smiled sadistically at the embarrassment Simon would feel. It would immensely awkward. Clary, being the compassionate soul she was, would probably leave so as to spare both of them any further humiliation. And then Jace would come out, corner her, take her to the Institute. If she accepted Simon's confession instead...he really didn't want to think about that.

"Okay," said Clary slowly. She looked slightly wary. "You're not...gay, are you?"

Simon was a deep, sickly green, the color of vomit. "If I were, I would dress better."

She leaned forward, saying something. Jace wasn't listening; he was too busy trying not to laugh. The discomfort and awkwardness of unrequited love amused him greatly. _To love is to destroy._ Clary didn't love Simon, not like he loved her. The poor little kid would find that out soon enough.

Before he could stop himself, a chuckle slid through his lips. Hastily he turned the chuckle into a cough, but it was too late. Simon and the blond seemed unfazed, but Clary straightened by sharply as if she'd been stung. Body rigid, she whirled around. Her green eyes latched onto him and stayed there. No use pretending to be invisible now. The corner of his mouth quirked up, and her eyes widened.

"What is it?" asked Simon. He was looking slightly to the right of Jace blankly, because of course he couldn't see him. Jace smiled and raised his left hand in a wave. He wanted to tease Clary, have some fun. So he rose, unhurriedly, and walked slowly out the door.

Outside, Jace leaned against a wall and pulled out the tracker. With the press of a few buttons, he deleted Clary. It would no longer be latched on to her.

The bell on the coffee shop door jingled and he heard the quiet snap of a shoe sole against pavement. Clary stood before him, her arms crossed. She was like a tiny flame who thought it was a wildfire, a sparrow who thought itself a hawk. Full of passion and feeling almost unimaginable for a girl of her size. Right now, she was pissed.

"Your friend's poetry is terrible," he said, just to break the tension.

She blinked, not expecting the comment. "W-what?"

"I said," Jace repeated impatiently, "His poetry was terrible. It sounds like he ate a dictionary and started vomiting words up at random." He could still hear the dreadful screeching and the clash of the words.

Clary was furious now. "I don't _care_ about Eric's poetry," she snapped. "I want to know why you're following me."

He ran his finger over the Sensor's screen. "Who said I was following you?"

"Nice try. And you were eavesdropping, too. Do you want to tell me what this is about, or should I just call the police?"

Stupid mundanes and their obsession with police. Those few mundane idiotic uniformed officers couldn't do squat. Except, of course, make things worse. Every time.

"And tell them what?" he replied witheringly. She simply had to be taken down a few pegs. There had to be a chip in her armor. "That invisible people are bothering you? Trust me, little girl, the police aren't going to arrest someone they can't see." The last part was to antagonize her, provoke her. Get her going, so he knew she had a weak spot.

It worked. Sort of. "I told you before, my name is not little girl." The words were forced out through clenched teeth. "It's Clary."

"I know," he said. "Pretty name. Like the herb, clary sage. In the old days people thought eating the seed would let you see the Fair Folk. Did you know that?" Dammit, he was showing off again.

She stared at him blankly, an expression that didn't suit her face. It was the exact same sheep-like expression that Simon always wore. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

He cursed inwardly. If he was to convince Hodge and the Lightwoods that she was special, then he needed something to work with. It made no sense; she acted like a mundane and looked like a mundane and sounded like a mundane, but she had the Sight. "You don't know much, do you?" There was a lazy contempt in the words that made her flinch. "You seem to be mundane like any other mundane, yet you can see me. It's a conundrum."

"What's a mundane?"

Ah, how to explain. "Someone of the human world. Someone like you."

She frowned at him. "But _you're_ human."

 _I never said otherwise,_ thought Jace. "I am," he replied. "But I'm not like you." It was a simple fact, and he wasn't in the mood to explain it to her.

"You think you're better," she accused. "That's why you were laughing at us." Us. Her and Simon. _Believe me, girl, that was only part of the reason._

"I was laughing at you because declarations of love amuse me, especially when unrequited. And because your Simon is one of the most mundane mundanes I've ever encountered. And because Hodge thought you might be dangerous, but if you are, you certainly don't know it."

Clary looked utterly astonished, as if she couldn't believe what Jace had just said. It briefly occurred to him that his comment of Simon's desperate love might've been a little unwanted and harsh. " _I'm_ dangerous?" Oh, that. "I saw you kill someone last night. I saw you drive a knife up under his ribs, and-" She fell silent abruptly, chewing on her lip.

He looked her straight in the eye. "I may be a killer," he said shamelessly, "but I know what I am. Can you say the same?"

"I'm an ordinary human being, just like you said. Who's Hodge?"

How could he answer? A teacher? An old friend? A once-traitor of the ruling Law over people like him that was now cursed to stay in the New York Institute forever? "My tutor. And I wouldn't be so quick to brand myself as ordinary, if I were you." An idea occurred to him, crazy but perhaps possible. What if she had a Voyance rune? To see through the mundane world into his? "Let me see your right hand."

"My right hand?" He nodded. She peered up at him suspiciously. "If I show you my hand, will you leave me alone?"

Yeah, right. "Certainly," he replied, not bothering to keep the amusement out of his voice.

Clary held up her right hand and he took it. Her hand was tiny, like the rest of her body. In the dim light, her skin was paler than usual and seemed to glow softly. A light dusting of freckles covered the back of her hand, a slight daub of color in the ivory. However, it wasn't Marked.

"Nothing," he muttered, disappointed. Back to square one. "You're not left-handed, are you?"

"No. Why?"

He shrugged and dropped her hand. "All Shadowhunter children get marked with the Voyance rune of their right hands - or left, if they're left-handed like me - when they're still young." Clary frowned at the title, _Shadowhunter._ "It's a permanent rune that helps us see the magical world." Jace lifted his left hand and turned it over, the Voyance rune illuminated by the store's lights.

Clary looked confused. "I don't see anything."

No, she probably didn't. Not right away. The mundane atmosphere was suppressing her. One of the faults of human being, trying to suppress their uniqueness. "Let your mind relax," he said. "Wait for it to come to you. Like...waiting for something to rise to the surface of water."

She rolled her eyes. "You're crazy." But she took another look at his hand and her body relaxed, her eyes sliding out of focus for a moment. Then she gasped and blinked, returning to reality suddenly. "A tattoo?"

He smiled, smug. She'd seen it. "I thought you could do it," he told her, lowering his hand. "And it's not a tattoo - it's a Mark. They're runes, burned into our skin. Different Marks do different things. Some are permanent, but the majority vanish when they've been used."

Clary nodded. She was beginning to understand, he could see it in her eyes. "That's why your arms aren't all inked up today? Even when I concentrate?"

"That's exactly why." She was catching on quickly. Thanks to him, of course. "I knew you had the Sight, at least." He glanced up at the darkening sky. He wanted to get back to the Institute before evening turned to night. "It's nearly full dark. We should go."

She looked indignant. " _We?_ I thought you were going to leave me alone."

There was disbelief and a slight bit of betrayal visible in her eyes. She'd actually trusted him to keep his word. He felt a small twinge of guilt, but it disappeared as suddenly as it came. "I lied," he said calmly. "Hodge said I have to bring you to the Institute with me. He wants to talk to you."

"Why would he want to talk to me?"

"Because you know about us now."

"About _us?_ You mean people like you. People who believe in demons." She sounded scornful.

"People who kill them," Jace said. "We're called Shadowhunters. At least, that's what we call ourselves. The Downworlders have less complimentary names for us." He smiled slightly, remembering a recent bar fight between him and a werewolf. Both he and the pack had been banned from the club for a year.

"Downworlders?"

"The Night Children. Warlocks. The fey. The magical folk of this world."

Clary looked slightly dazed. "Don't stop there," she said. "I suppose there are also, what, mermaids and werewolves and zombies?"

"Of course there are," he confirmed, amused by her astonishment. "There are reasons those stories exist. They're based in fact, even if all mundanes think they're myth. Shadowhunters have a saying: _all the stories are true._ Although, to be fair, you mostly find zombies farther south, where the _voudun_ priests are."

She had reached the point of shock where she blindly accepted everything he told her. "What about mummies?" she asked dazedly. "Do they only hand around Egypt?"

"Don't be ridiculous. No one believes in mummies." The dead were dead, and would never rise again. Unless, of course, a warlock started getting nasty ideas.

"They don't?"

He shook his head. "Of course not. Look, Hodge will explain all this to you when you see him."

She folded her arms and glared at him. "What if I don't want to see him?" she challenged, sounding like an impertinent little kid.

"That's your problem. You can either come willingly or unwillingly."

She looked astonished. "Are you threatening to kidnap me?"

A flair for the dramatic. He could respect that. "If you want to look at it that way," he said in a low voice, "yes."

She opened her mouth, ready to protest, but was cut off by a loud buzzing. Her phone.

"Go ahead and answer that if you like," he told her. She seemed scared to pick up the phone; he wondered if everything he'd told her was starting to sink in now. Finally, she turned away from him and pulled out her phone. "Mom?"

She listening for a while, a look of alarm crossing her face. "It's all right, Mom," she said soothingly. "I'm fine. I'm on my way home."

What must it be like, though Jace, to have a mother? He'd never had one. Michael Wayland had been both father and mother to him, until the day he was killed.

Clary looked truly scared now. An alarm bell rang in Jace's head and he watched her alertly. "Mom!" she cried into the phone, eyes wide. "Mom, are you all right?" Pause. " _Who's_ found you? Mom, did you call the police? Did you-" She started suddenly and was silent for a moment, looking terrified.

Her mother said something in a low voice and the phone went dead. "Mom!" Clary screamed. "Mom, are you there?" She stared at the screen, her expression so distraught that it twisted his insides.

'Clary," he said, her name rolling off his tongue. "What's going on?"

She ignored him, feverishly trying to redial her mother. No answer. She tried again, but her hands were shaking too badly. The phone fell from her grasp and hit the floor. The impact had broken it; a long crack was visible on the screen and it wouldn't turn on.

"Dammit!" she cried after punching the buttons in vain. She threw the phone to the ground again, tears forming rapidly in her brilliant green eyes.

"Stop that," he said, pulling her to her feet and gripping her wrist tightly. She was trembling, fear and sadness sending her common sense out the door. "Has something happened?"

The moment he said the words, he felt like slapping himself. Of course something had happened! She was crying, for God's sake. "Give me your phone," she gasped, reaching with her free hand for his Sensor. "I have to-"

He didn't try to stop her, instead maintaining his firm grip on her wrist. She was upset, not thinking clearly. He had to keep her in his sight until she calmed down. "It's not a phone," he said. "It's a Sensor. You won't be able to use it."

"But I need to call the police!"

That would make things worse. "Tell me what happened first," he told her firmly, but gently. She tried pulling herself away from him, but he only tightened his grip. "I can _help_ you."

Her eyes flashed with a sudden, maniacal rage. Her hand flew up and struck him across the cheeks, her nails raking his skin. He jerked back, more from surprise than from pain, and his grip on her slackened. In that moment she tore herself away from him and sprinted down the street.


	3. Chapter 3

Jace leaned against the wall, recovering himself. He had never, not once, been slapped across the face. Especially not by a girl. Even when the Lightwoods were angry at him they didn't dare. And yet he'd just been backhanded by a mundie girl.

Clary. He had to find her. The stupid, passionate, emotional little mundane girl with the beautiful eyes, she had no idea what she was doing. She was running straight towards trouble.

He pulled out his tracker and cursed. Like an idiot, a first class idiot, he'd deleted Clary from it. She was probably somewhere in the memory banks, but he'd forgotten how to access them. He sighed and began to punch the buttons. Every minute he wasted was another minute down on Clary's life.

After what felt like hours, a red dot appeared on the tracker. He'd found her.

She was headed home, wherever that was. He needed to follow her. Jace ran down the street faster than he'd ever run before, the mundane world around him a blur. Adrenaline turned his blood to fire, sending it rushing through his veins and burning him up from head to toe.

He turned on Clary's street and stopped dead in his tracks. Despair expanded in his chest. On each side of the street were seven two-story apartment buildings, all identical. Clary was in one of them. Which one was lost to him.

An old woman bizarrely dressed in a large purple cloak and several bead necklaces came stumbling out of one of the building. Jace jogged up to her.

"Do you know where I could find a girl named Clary here?" he asked.

The woman eyed him. "Why do you want her?"

"Please, I need to know where she lives." It occurred to Jace that he sounded like a stalker, and must look like one too.

She pointed at the top story of the building she came out of. "The upstairs floor," she rasped. "And when you get there, will you please ask her and her mother to keep the noise level down? It sounds like someone's ripping apart their apartment."

Jace's blood ran cold. He sprinted towards the building and slammed open the door. The acrid stench of demons entered his nostrils and made his skin crawl ominously. The apartment was way too silent.

He took the stairs two at a time and pushed open the door that led to Clary's floor. When the door swung open, he drew in his breath sharply, taking in the scene before him with the familiar feeling of dread crawling up his throat.

The apartment was in ruins. The sofa was overturned, the cushions ripped with fluffy stuffing pouring from the wounds. The small television screen had a large crack running diagonally across it and was smeared with acrylic paint. Several canvas painting had been torn apart and tossed across the room. Pots and pans and cutlery from the kitchen had been thrown wily-nily. Blood and paint were splattered on the walls and floor.

In the center of the room was Clary, sprawled across the floor. A large pool of blood surrounded her and was getting bigger by the second. Her curls were matted and tangled, floating on the surface of the blood. But what really caught his eye was the form that lay on top of her, already in the throes of death.

A Ravener demon.

Long and scaled, it resembled a crocodile it its elongated snout and array of wicked sharp teeth. Its barbed tail twitched slightly, a large hole in the side from a missing spike. The spikes were coated with a deadly poison; the fact that one was missing meant that it had been used against Clary, and that scared Jace. Shadowhunters had runes and angel blood to help against demon poison. Clary did not.

The Ravener's thirty eyes were all wide open, but blind. The irises had been clouded over until the pitch black was hidden by white. The centipede-like legs were tucked under the body, pressing into Clary's thigh in a way that was surely not comfortable and definitely disgusting. But it was dead, and that was all Jace needed to know.

He ran to her side, careful to avoid the puddles of blood and demon slime. She didn't seem to badly hurt; covered in cuts and acid burns and a lot of blood, but no serious wounds. Then he turned her body over and saw what was on her neck.

Or, rather, what was _in_ her neck.

A large spike, the length of Jace's forearm, was embedded in Clary's neck, inches from her spine. The part that had not entered her flesh dripped black, acidic poison onto the wooden floor. A wound like this would've paralyzed her for life, if not for Shadowhunter treatment.

He propped up her body as best he could against the wall without driving the spike deeper into her body and rifled through his pockets. Finally, his finger made contact with a small ceramic vial filled with a dark brown liquid. One of Hodge's emergency on-the-go titanes, perfect to buy him enough of Clary's remaining time and life to get her to the Institute. Possibly.

Heart pounding, Jace uncorked the vial and tipped the contents into her mouth. He pinched her nose and pressed down on her chest just hard enough that her body instinctively swallowed, downing the tisane. A shudder ran through her and a slight tinge of color returned to her skin. It had worked.

A faint wailing noise broke the silence and steadily grew louder. Police. Cursing, Jace turned Clary over again. He had to get her out of here as soon as possible. Gritting his teeth, he wrapped his hands in his jacket and grasped the spike, trying to ignore the pain and the sound of acid burning through his jacket. The spike's barbs had initially resisted to come out, but Jace managed to worm them out. Freed of the burden, Clary's body relaxed and became several pounds lighter.

The police were outside now, opening the door to the building and probably getting ready to barge into the apartment. Jace hoisted Clary into his arms - she was ridiculously light - and search for a way out of the building.

Suddenly it hit him. The back door. Of course. He would have to risk being seen by the police though, because the only way to the back door was outside the apartment. He would have to take the chance.

"By the Angel!" Jace cursed. "Raziel, I swear to kill a thousand demons next week if you get us out of this alive."

He kicked open the door and sprinted along the hall, ignoring the startled cries of the officers below him. The first door he came upon led to a staircase which in turn led to a door. That door was his way out.

"Stop!" yelled a police officer. "Stop and put your hands behind your head!"

 _Hell no,_ thought Jace, and he sprinted down the stairs, taking them three at a time. With a well placed kick the back door burst open, letting in a rush of warm summer air. Instantly beads of sweat appeared on his forehead and arms; summer nights in New York were hell at best. Resisting the urge to stop and wipe his forehead, Jace sprinted to the back of the building and ducked behind a stand of rose bushes. Carefully, he lowered Clary onto the cool, dewy grass.

Her eyes flickered open and flashed with pain. Her body began to convulse with pain, but he pressed her down as he tore the bottom of his shirt off. "Don't move," he told her in low voice.

Clary didn't listen and half turned her head to the side, towards the police cars, and winced in pain. Her eyes landed on the police cars and stayed there. A sort of relief filled her face and she tried to sit up, only to gag with agony.

"I told you not to move," he hissed. Couldn't she listen to him for once? "That Ravener demon got you in the back of the neck. It was half-dead, so it wasn't much a sting, but we have to get you to the Institute." He took out another ceramic vial, this time filled with one of Hodge's healing salves. He smeared the waxy substance onto the strip of cloth and rubbed it evenly across the rough fabric. Just touching it soothed the pain of his minor injuries. "Hold _still."_

She was shuddering uncontrollably, her arms and legs spasming in a way that made his blood run cold. "That thing," she rasped, "the monster, it _talked."_

"You've heard a demon talk before." He slipped the cloth under her neck, pulling gently so that it covered her wound securely, and began to tie it. His father had taught him moderation of touch when he was a child, and he'd been given countless exercises to practice it. " _It's important that you know when to be rough and when to be gentle. When to stroke and when to scratch. For good Shadowhunters, it comes instinctively."_

Her voice was soft, barely audible, and racked with pain. "The demon in Pandemonium - it looked like a person."

"It was an Eidolon demon. A shape-changer. Raveners look like they look. Not very attractive, but they're too stupid to care."

"It said it was going to eat me." Her voice shook slightly, and he had a sudden overpowering urge to wrap her in his arms. She was suddenly too weak, too vulnerable, to be left alone. She needed protection; he needed to protect her.

"But it didn't," he told her soothingly as he finished the knot. "You killed it." That was the amazing thing. Ravener demons were dangerous; Alec hated them and Isabelle despised the long process of killing them. Too disgusting, too acidic, too poisonous. Yet somehow this puny little insignificant mundie had managed to single-handedly kill one, and was still alive at the end of the ordeal. Not for long, though, if he didn't get her to the Institute soon.

The salve did its work, and Clary managed to haul herself into a sitting position. "The police are here," she croaked. "We should-"

"There's nothing they can do. Someone probably heard you screaming and reported it. Ten to one those aren't real police officers. Demons have a way of hiding their tracks." Jace's voice became instinctively bitter at the last sentence. If it had been possible, he would have attacked every police force in the world and killed the thousands of demons living under the protection of mundie law enforcement.

"My...mom," she rasped, forcing the words out painfully.

He grasped her hand and put as much urgency as possible into his voice. "There's Ravener poison coursing through your veins _right now._ You'll be dead in an hour if you don't come with me." He pulled her upright and braced her against his body. "Come on."

Clary took a step and immediately fell sideways. He caught her and slid a hand across her back, keeping her steady. Through her thin tank-top, he could feel every bump and ridge of her vertebrae and bones. The metallic scent of blood and the acrid odor of poison hung around her like an aura.

"Can you walk?" Jace asked urgently.

"I-I think so." She glanced behind them, towards the procession of police officers headed their way. The leader was a slim blond woman with a skeletal face and fleshless limbs. A demon. "Her hand-"

"I told you they might be demons." Jace cast a look at the back of the house. "We have to get out of here. Can we go through the alley?"

"It's bricked up. There's no way-" Her words were cut off by a storm of coughing. The hand she covered her mouth with was covered in blood.

They had no time. Clary was going to die, either by Ravener poisoning or the demons currently on their heels at the moment. He needed to move quickly, and that meant taking a risk. A big risk. One that would almost certainly end in disaster.

But there was no time to think this through. Jace fumbled in his jacket pockets and found his stele. With a surprisingly steady hand he drew the Shield rune, the one Mark that would enable him to get Clary out of here unseen by the mundies. He had to move fast, and mundane law was not going to stop him.

"What's that supposed to do?" She'd recognized it as a Mark, of course. He smiled slightly, unable to ignore the slight surge of pride and vanity that the words brought.

Jace slid the stele into his belt. "It'll hide you. Temporarily." He noticed her eyes on his weapons belt. "My stele," he clarified.

She nodded slightly, looking distinctly sick. "Jace," she managed, and crumpled into him. He caught her effortlessly; she really did weigh almost nothing. He swung her up into his arms, the right bracing her shoulders and the left under the knees. " _Covenant,"_ he muttered to himself.

Clary looked up at him. Her red curls were dark in the dim light, and damp with blood. They hung loosely about her head, framing her small face like a thick, dark curtain. Her eyes, in contrast, were bright, like little orbs of shining green light. Tiny pinpricks of light, the stars, danced in the center as she looked up at him and focused on his features.

When the cloud of unconsciousness passed over, even Jace's Shadowhunter strength wasn't enough to tie her down.


	4. Chapter 4

The spot was clean, the blood and slime and poison long since wiped away by Alec's careful hands. Still, Jace couldn't help stopping and staring every time he passed the spot, recalling the night as if it had all happened only moments before.

 _After a half-hour of hauling himself and Clary through the subway and in taxis, Jace finally arrived at the Institute. Practically dead on his feet, he pushed open the door and almost collapsed. Clary was still unconscious and her wound hadn't clotted, something that worried him greatly. He himself was soaked from head-to-toe in deep scarlet blood._

 _Alec and Isabelle ran into the foyer and stopped dead._

" _What the hell!" Alec's hair was mussed and he was dressed only in striped pajama bottoms, meaning that it was a lot later into the night than Jace had originally thought. "Jace, what happened?"_

" _She's hurt," Jace managed, his vision going slightly blurry. "She needs help. Get Hodge...please, I can't-"_

 _Hodge had come in and lifted Clary's broken, bloody body in his arms. Like a protective grandfather he carried her down the cavernous hallway into the sterile white infirmary, where he laid her down on the bed. Instantly the sheets turned a bright crimson._

" _Get Jace some food," he instructed Isabelle. "And go back to bed - I've got this."_

 _Jace was slipping in a pool of Clary's blood and demon poison, mixing the oily black into the thick metallic scarlet. They began to blend, the life fluids from two completely different beings: an innocent and a devil spawn. His breathing was ragged, half from exhaustion, half from worry. A nagging voice in his head told him exactly what he didn't want to hear:_ It's all your fault.

 _It's all your fault. It's all your fault._ Jace shook his head and rubbed his eyes tiredly. For three nights straight he hadn't been able to sleep, the memories of Clary, the Ravener, and the heart-wracking journey home clouding up his brain. Images of her lifeless and limp in his arms penetrated even the usually calming atmosphere of the training room.

"Jace?" It was Alec, an expression of brotherly concern on his face. "Are you okay?"

He couldn't answer, the memory still holding on to him with a cold, vise-like grip. How could he have let her run off that evening, in front of Java Jones? How could he have let her do it all on her own?

"Jace?" A hand was on his shoulder now, gripping it and steadying him.

He snapped out of the trance and blinked the guilt from his eyes. When he turned to Alec, he was the picture of indifference. "Yes?"

Alec blinked, thoroughly confused. "Well, you were kinda spacing out, so I thought...you know..." He searched for the right words. "I just wanted to know if you were alright," he finished lamely.

"By the Angel, Alec, you don't have to monitor everything about me," said Jace. He shook his head, his tone slightly condescending. "Honestly, you're like a golden retriever, always following me around and panting eagerly at _every little thing_ I do."

Alec flushed angrily and Jace felt a tiny twinge of guilt, but continued anyways. "This little obsession of yours with me is really starting to get on my nerves. Can't you find anyone else to bug 24/7?"

"Sorry," muttered Alec, his eyes bright with anger and embarrassment. "It won't happen again." Jace watched him half walk, half run through the hallway with a sad smile. His parabatai really did have strong feelings for him.

He took one last look at the spot and sighed. Isabelle was on watch this afternoon; she would alert them if anything new happened to Clary. And when she did, by God, he would be the first at her bedside.

Jace didn't know why the mundane girl had him so wound up. Was it the way her crimson locks tumbled about when she shook her head, like a waterfall of brilliant color about her shoulders? The way her emerald green eyes flashed whenever she was angry, or afraid? The way her skin had felt beneath her fingers when he'd taken her hand (her _hand_ for God's sake, he was utterly ridiculous)? He'd firmly stayed away from her bedside these past three days, knowing that when he say her the memories would come back again, and stronger, and he didn't know if he had enough self control to hold himself back.

Dear God, he was hopeless. He needed music.

Jace hadn't touched the piano for ages. For some reason, when ever he played the instrument, the notes always came out sad. Even when he was playing _Arabesque_ and _Ants Marching._ But now, it seemed perfect. He needed a melody, any melody, that would pierce his thoughts and fill them instead with notes and riffs and crescendos.

The keys were cool under his fingertips, and a light pressure on his left index caused a single note to ring clear and loud in the room, echoing off the cellos and the harps and the drums all surrounding him. He played a quick scale, just to get his fingers warmed up, then began to play properly. The song was one of his more modern favorites, _How to Save A Life_ by The Fray. Softly, he began to sing the words.

Where did I go wrong?

I lost a friend

Somewhere along in the bitterness

And I would have stayed up with you all night

Had I known how to save a life

A slight noise cut through his music, a shuffling of feet. Startled, he whirled around on the stool and peered into the darkness. "Alec?" he said. "Is that you?" _Come to yell at me for my idiotic behavior? Wouldn't blame you._

"It's not Alec," replied a soft, slightly musical voice he knew only too well. "It's me." She took a step into the room, a slight light illuminating her pale features. "Clary."

As if he hadn't known from the moment she'd spoken. He rose to his feet and faced her, his hands shoved into his pockets. "Our own Sleeping Beauty," he said with a small smile. "Who finally kissed you awake?"

The statement was half true, he supposed, the one about her being a Sleeping Beauty. She was not beautiful, at least not in the conventional way. Her hair and eyes, brilliant colors they were, drew eyes to her like moths to a lamp. From there, the eyes traveled downwards, alighting on the smooth line of her neck and her flat chest, her slim arms and small waist, the narrow hips and slender legs that completed her. She had an innocence about her, as if she didn't know how much attention she attracted to herself. Or how certain people felt towards her. Certain people.

She was telling him about Isabelle's instructions for her to stay put while the Shadowhunter summoned Hodge. Jace couldn't help smiling at this: of course Clary hadn't listened. She was a disobedient free spirit. Someone to respect. "I should have warned her about your habit of never doing what you're told."

Jace focused on her clothes. A red tank-top thats neckline was way too low and a pair of jean that resembled a skirt on her slender frame. Her smirked. She looked like she was drowning in the sheer size of the clothes; he had never known that Isabelle was so...big. For lack of a better word.

"Are those Isabelle's clothes?" he asked incredulously. "They look ridiculous on you."

She rolled her eyes. "I could point out that you burned _my_ clothes."

"It was purely precautionary," he replied, smiling. He slid the cover over the piano and ran a hand through his hair. "Come on, I'll take you to Hodge."

The walk from the music room to the library was a five minute one, but every second seemed to go by too fast.

Clary was, of course, fascinated by everything that was within her view. "Why does this place have so many bedrooms?" she asked. "Who's Max?" "On vacation?" "What's the Shadowhunter home country called?"

So. Many. Questions. He answered them as patiently as possible, trying to keep in mind that she was new to all this and that losing his patience would not help her learn any quicker. Then she started cornering in on her time in Idris, unintentionally prying into the one part of his life he would never share with anyone.

"I take it that you've been there. To Idris, I mean." Her voice was pleasantly conversational.

"I grew up there," he answered quietly, layering his words with a subtle current of warning. She got the message and tried a different question.

"So most of you are brought up there, and the when you grow up-"

She meant well, Jace told himself. She didn't know. His past in Idris was a complete mystery to her; he couldn't blame her for asking the wrong questions. Still, his calm demeanor was slightly cracked by the time they reached the library.

The scent of books and the sound of silence hit him like a familiar wave of comfort, wrapping him up in a warm embrace. Books were his one true love. _Other than himself,_ he added with an amused smile.

Clary too seemed impressed. Her eyes alighted on everything in the room, traveling quickly over the spines of the books with acute interest. Awe was clear in her features. Jace followed her, hands in jeans pockets, matching his tread to hers.

"A book lover, I see," called Hodge from his desk. He gave Clary a welcoming smile. "You didn't tell me that, Jace."

Jace grinned. "We haven't done much talking during our short acquaintance. I'm afraid our reading habits didn't come up."

She spun on her foot and shot him a glare. Turning back to Hodge, she said, "How can you tell? That I like books, I mean."

Hodge rose from the desk, the full gnarled length of his aged body coming into view. Hugo sat on his shoulder, so perfectly still that the bird looked like a part of Hodge's body. "The look on your face when you walked in," he said with a smile. "Somehow I doubted you were impressed by me."

Clary stifled a small gasp at the sight of Hodge and her brilliant eyes grew large. They focused on him with intense curiosity and Jace smiled. She was like a newborn puppy, amazed with everything.

"This is Hugo," Hodge said, stroking the black bird with a single wrinkled finger. "Hugo is a raven, and, as such, he knows many things. I, meanwhile, am Hodge Starkweather, a professor of history, and, as such, I do not know nearly enough."

Jace was startled when Clary laughed. Hodge's roundabout remarks and dry jokes often escaped most people; she was quite intelligent for a mundie girl of her age. "Clay Fray," she said, taking Hodge's outstretched hand and shaking it.

Fray. Another word for battle, or fight. It was an interesting last name, and respectable in its meaning. He wondered what it was applied to; the fact that she fought for what she believed in? Or did it imply that one must fight for her?

"Honored to make your acquaintance," Hodge said in his deep, gravelly voice. "I would be honored to make the acquaintance of anyone who could kill a Ravener with her bare hands."

Clary blushed. "It wasn't my bare hands," she corrected. "It was Jace's - well, I don't remember what it was called, but-"

He cut in for her. "She means my Sensor. She shoved it down the thing's throat. The runes must have choked it." A thought suddenly struck him. "I guess I'll need another one. I should have mentioned that."

"There are several extras in the weapons room," said Hodge offhandedly. His attention was on Clary. "That was quick thinking," he praised. "What gave you the idea of using the Sensor as a weapon?"

At Hodge's words, a sharp and derisive laugh rang out. Alec was sprawled in an armchair by the fireplace, skepticism and dislike twisting his delicate features. Jace shot him a glare: _Back off._

"I'm not quite sure what you mean, Alec," said Hodge quietly. "Are you suggesting that she didn't kill that demon after all?" The way he said it seemed to question Alec's sanity.

Alec tilted his sharp chin in the direction of Clary with a hostile glare. "Of course she didn't. Look at her - she's a _mundie,_ Hodge, and a little kid, at that. There's no way she took on a Ravener."

 _That's what I thought, too,_ remembered Jace. He'd made the dire mistake of underestimating Clary and it hadn't led to good things. It had, in fact, led to her practically unarmed and alone in an apartment with a Ravener demon.

"I'm _not_ a little kid," Clary snapped. "I'm sixteen years old - well, I will be on Sunday."

"The same age as Isabelle," Hodge said. It occurred to Jace that Hodge was actually backing Clary up, in his own way. Arguing with Alec in the fatherly way he had. "Would you call her a child?"

"Isabelle," Alec shot back dryly, "hails from one of the greatest Shadowhunter dynasties in history. This _girl,_ on the other hand, hails from New Jersey." His tone was condescending and irked Jace.

Apparently, Clary wasn't taking it well either. "I'm from Brooklyn! And so what? I just killed a demon in my own house, and you're going to be a dickhead about it because I'm not some spoiled-rotten rich brat like you and your sister?"

Jace choked back his laughter, eyes streaming with mirth. He couldn't hold it back any longer at Alec's incredulity: " _What_ did you call me?"

"She has a point, Alec," said Jace, still chuckling. "It's those bridge-and-tunnel demons you really have to watch out for-"

Alec rose to his feet, fists clenched. "It's not _funny,_ Jace," he snapped. "Are you just going to let her stand there and call me names?"

He looked at Jace almost desperately, as if expecting him to scold Clary. "Yes," said Jace kindly. "It'll do you good - try to think of it as endurance training."

Alec's face changed. "We may be _parabatai,"_ he said through gritted teeth. ""But your flippancy is wearing on my patience."

"And your obstinacy is wearing on mine," Jace returned calmly. "When I found her, she was lying on the floor in a pool of blood with a dying demon practically on top of her. I watched as it vanished. If she didn't kill it, who did?"

"Raveners are stupid. Maybe it got itself in the neck with its stinger. It's happened before-"

Jace looked disdainfully at Alec. "Now you're suggesting it committed suicide?"

Alec was plainly furious, but worked to keep his voice under control. "It isn't right for her to be here. Mundies aren't allowed in the Institute, and there are good reasons for that. If anyone knew about this, we could be reported to the Clave."

"That's not entirely true." Hodge had maintained his pleasant expression throughout the conversation, but now a hint of annoyance was showing through his wrinkles. "The Law does allow us to offer sanctuary to mundanes in certain circumstances. A Ravener has already attacked Clary's mother - she could very well have been next."

Clary flinched slightly. Hugo, as if sensing the tension in the room, cawed softly.

"Raveners are search-and-destroy machines," Alec said. His voice was monotonous, mechanical, as if he was reciting from a textbook. Knowing Alec, he probably was. "They act under orders from warlocks or powerful demon lords. Now, what interest would a warlock or demon lord have in an ordinary mundane household?" He turned his eyes accusingly to Clary. "Any thoughts?"

Jace watched as Clary looked for an answer. Drawing up nothing, she said, "It must have been a mistake."

Alec laughed. "Demons don't make those kind of mistakes." His tone was dripping condescension and superiority. Jace felt his skin prickle with sudden dislike. "If they were after your mother, there must have been a reason. If she were innocent-"

Clary's eyes flashed hatred and rage. When she spoke, her voice was deathly quiet. "What do you mean, 'innocent'?"

"I-" Alec began, startled.

Hodge cut in. "What he means," he said, "is that it is extremely unusual for a powerful demon, the kind who might command a host of lesser demons, to interest himself in the affairs of human beings. No mundane may safely summon a demon - they lack that power - but there have been some, desperate and foolish, who have found a warlock to do it for them."

Clary shook her head, sending her scarlet curls bouncing around her shoulders. "My mother doesn't know any warlock. She doesn't believe in magic." Her voice was strong; she was plainly telling the truth. "Madame Dorothea - she lives downstairs - she's a witch. Maybe the demons were after her and got my mom by mistake?"

"She's like most witches - a fake," Jace said. He remember the load of rubbish he'd found about her in tiny pamphlets around the city: _Prophetess for Hire, Skilled Seer for Sale._ The updated books on witches had nothing on a Madame Dorothea. "I already looked into it. There's no reason for any warlock to be interested in her unless he's in the market for nonfunctional crystal balls." He directed his next words at Clary, who was watching him with a strange expression. "Warlocks are born magic users. Witches are humans who've taught themselves a little magic. But very few are the real thing."

Hodge heaved a sigh and ran a finger over Hugo's glossy feathers. "And we're back where we began. It seems time has come to notify the Clave."

Panic shot through Jace. "No! We can't-" He fumbled for a reason. The Clave, if notified, would surely find a reason to chuck Clary out, probably to her pathetic little friend, Simon. He didn't want her to leave yet, but more for selfish reasons than anything else.

"It made sense to keep Clary's presence here a secret while we were not sure she would recover," Hodge reasoned. "But now she has, and she is the first mundane to pass through the doors of the Institute in over a hundred years. You know the rules about mundane knowledge of Shadowhunters, Jace. The Clave must be notified."

Something Hodge said rang a bell in Jace's head somewhere and he frantically tried to find what.

"Absolutely," Alec agreed triumphantly. "I could get a message to my father-"

Jace found what he was looking for. Sheer desperation threw the words out of his mouth. "She's not a mundane."

Alec choked on his words and stared at Jace with disbelief. Hodge's furry gray eyebrows shot up so high they disappeared into his thinning hairline. Clary was staring at Jace in confusion.

"But I am," she said.

He shook his head. "No," he said quietly. "You aren't." It was too late to go back now; he had to tell Hodge about what he'd done that night. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, and began. "That night- there were Du'sien demons, dressed like police officers. We had to get past them. Clary was too weak to run, and there wasn't time to hide - she would have died. So I used my stele - put a _mendelin_ rune on the inside of her arm. I thought-"

Hodge's reaction was so much worse than he'd expected. "Are you out of your _mind?"_ The tutor slammed his hand with astonishing force on the antique wooden table, sending a shudder through it. "You know what the Law says about placing Marks on mundanes! You - you of all people should have known better!"

Jace recalled the swirly gold letters. _Those who use the God-given gift of rune magic on the mundane population of the world endanger those they have sworn to protect and thus violate the strongest and most primary of all laws: loyalty to duty. The punishment, no matter the circumstance, is immediate removal of all Marks and life-long banishment extending to kin and family members as well. The violator may also face an unhonorable death._ He suddenly felt cold. "But it worked," he protested, stomach churning. The prospect of losing his Shadowhunter right was almost too horrible to imagine. He simply hadn't been thinking straight that night. "Clary, show them your arm."

Baffled, she held up her arm. There, barely visible on the pale skin, was the thin scar of three overlapping circles. The rune.

"See," he said triumphantly, looking at Hodge. "It didn't hurt her at all."

Hodge was still furious. "That's not the point. You could have turned her into a Forsaken."

Alec's cheeks were red. "I can't believe you, Jace. Only Mundanes can receive Marks from the Gray Book - they _kill_ mundanes-"

"She's not a mundane." Jace's frustration was leaking into his voice, and he made no effort to stop it. "Haven't you been listening? It explains why she could see us. She must have Clave blood."

Clary looked rather wary. "But I don't," she said slowly, shaking her head. "I couldn't."

"You must," Jace said, still facing Alec and Hodge. "If you didn't, the Mark I made on your arm..."

Hodge's frown was like thunder. "That's enough, Jace," he said, clearly displeased. "There's no need to frighten her further."

"But I was right, wasn't I? It explains what happened to her mother, too. If she was a Shadowhunter in exile, she might well have Downworlder enemies."

"My mother wasn't a Shadowhunter!"

"Your father, then," Jace said, ignoring the sting of memories resurfacing. "What about him?"

Clary's face lost all expression. When she spoke, her voice was flat. "He died. Before I was born."

 _Ah._ Jace flinched. He knew what it was like to lose his father. However, unlike Clary's father, Michael Wayland had been killed in a fire lit by traitors, backstabbers, betrayers.

"It's possible," Alec said slowly, sounding rather reluctant. "If her father were a Shadowhunter and her mother a mundane - well, we all know it's against the Law to marry a mundie. Maybe they were in hiding."

"My mother would have told me," Clary said, though her voice was uncertain.

"Not necessarily," Jace said quietly. "We all have secrets."

A light came to her eyes. "Luke," she said. "Our friend. He would know." Her face changed to a look of guilty horror. "It's been three days - he must be frantic. Can I call him? Is there a phone?" She turned the full force of her innocent face to Jace, who squirmed under her pleading gaze. "Please."

He hesitating, throwing a glancing a Hodge. The old man nodded and shifted aside to let Clary pass. She ran to the antique phone behind Hodge and hastily dialed Luke's number.

Jace leaned against Alec's armchair and watched her. Her body straightened when he picked up and her voice was bursting with relief.

"Luke! It's me. It's Clary." Pause. "I'm fine. I'm sorry I didn't call you before. Luke, my mom-" Pause. "Then you haven't heard from her. What did the police say." Pause. "I'm in the city. I don't know where exactly. With some friends." Jace smiled at the light title. "My wallet's gone, though," she continued. "If you've got some cash, I could take a cab to your place-"

She stopped speaking and listening. Shock tightened her body and the phone half slipped from her hand. "What?" Her voice was breathless, confused. At Luke's answer, she said, "We could call-" Luke interrupted her again and she paused to let him speak. When she answered, it was in a desperate whine. "But I don't want to stay here. I don't know these people. You-"

Whatever Luke said next must have hurt her the most, because her shoulders began to shake, the telltale sign of tears. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "It's just-"

He hung up.

Clary turned around, her eyes red and a picture of unbelievable shock on her face. Jace studied her and felt a small twinge of sympathy. In one of the hardest times of her life, she'd just been dissed by the closest person she had to a father.

"I take it he wasn't happy to hear from you?" Jace was surprised by how light his voice was. She shuddered and remained silent.

Hodge looked at her with a fatherly expression. "I think I'd like to have a talk with Clary." Jace opened his mouth to protest, but Hodge cut him off. "Alone," he said.

Alec rose. "Fine," he said, unperturbed. "We'll leave you to it."

Jace wasn't leaving without a fight. He'd saved the girl's life, after all. The only reason she was still was breathing was because he'd put his own life on the line and rescued her. "That's hardly fair," he objected stubbornly. " _I'm_ the one who found her. I'm the one who saved her life!" Seeing that Hodge would not budge, he turned to Clary. "You want me here, don't you?"

She turned her face away from his, hiding behind the thick curtain of her hair. Alec laughed. "Not everyone wants you around all the time, Jace," he said.

 _She's upset. Not thinking clearly. She's just focused on not crying. Don't take it personally._ Yet somehow he still felt her. "Don't be ridiculous," he shot back at Alec, a slight hint of disappointment in his voice. "Fine, then. We'll be in the weapons room."

He left the library, Alec behind him. They made their way through the labyrinthine hallways to the weapons room, where rows and rows of swords, knives, seraph blades, and whips awaited them.

Jace relaxed as the familiar scent of metal and steel polish washed over him. He and Alec took their customary seats at the island in the center of the room. Alec grabbed a pair of seraph blades from the nearby shelf and tossed one to Jace.

"What do you think of her?" he asked Jace, rather unexpectedly.

Jace looked up at him, startled. "Who?"

"Clary. What do you think of her?"

He frowned in confusion. "I don't think I know what you mean."

"Like, who is she? Inside? What does she act like? Is she whiny? Pathetic? Shallow?"

"None of those," Jace said, picking up a brown rag from a stand in the corner of the room and sliding it across the surface of the seraph tube. "Took everything I told her pretty well. Like she wasn't too surprised. Or at least she didn't show it. And she's got guts, which I like."

"I don't trust her," said Alec darkly.

"And why is that?"

"First of all, she's a redhead." He paused and Jace raised his eyebrows. "She cries too easily. And she relies too much on us, like we owe her something."

Jace burst out laughing. "Your first opinion is just ridiculous. As an answer to your second, she has only cried once since this all started, and that's now. And we do owe her something, on behalf of her Shadowhunter blood."

"On behalf of her _supposed_ Shadowhunter blood," corrected Alec. "We don't know for sure."

"What else could it be?"

"I don't know. Jace, don't you think you're spending too much of your time worrying about her?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"She's become an obsession for you. An unhealthy one. You almost died at her house."

"I couldn't just let her go there on her own! You know what would have happened if I did."

"You could've called me."

"You would've been too late. And besides, I handled it."

"Her mom died. You call that handling it?"

"Alec, if you don't shut up, I am going to ram this blade up your-"

Alex put his hands up in mock surrender. "All right, fine. Just remember that when she breaks your heart, I won't be able to help you."

Silence fell over them like an enormous thick blanket, almost smothering Jace. He continued scrubbing at the spotless seraph tube, painfully aware of Alec's disapproving gaze.

 **Hi guys! This is now officially my longest writing piece! I want to thank:**

 **Kiera Long**

 **RileyLovesClary**

 **ClaryH**

 **Tamealio**

 **Luvmortalinstruments**

 **flor herondale**

 **jaronkatyaterinabishop4678**

 **tsphonia**

 **burntmatchrekindled**

 **krislhans**

 **matcheddauntless**

 **Oregongirl1992**

 **booksarelife13**

 **blueglassboat**

 **Also, I might not be able to update as often as before.**

 **Thanks for your support!**


	5. Chapter 5

Jace and Alec sat together in perfect silence, each scrubbing away at their seventh seraph blade stubbornly. Alec's displeasure practically rolled off him in waves, but Jace kept his mouth shut. He was not in the habit of apologizing, and was not about to change his ways.

The door opened and a rush of cool air entered the stuffy room. Jace looked up and his eyes found the small, shadowed figure of Clary, Isabelle's clothes hanging off her thin frame like dish towels off the rack.

"Where's Hodge?" he asked. Alec's eyes were boring into his back like lasers.

"Writing to the Silent Brothers." Her eyes were wary, focused on Alec as she slowly made her way to the table. There was a certain grace to the way she walked. Was this unique to her, or had he just never noticed it in mundanes before?

Alec shuddered, with good reason. "Ugh."

"What are you doing?" she asked, taking a seat between them.

"Polishing these." Jace moved his hand to show her the array of seraph blades lined up neatly on the table. Unactivated, they did not look like much: slim wands of dull silver. But he knew from a lifetime of experience how dangerous they really were. "Made by the Iron Sisters, our weapon makers," he explained, seeing Clary's dubious expression. "They're seraph blades."

"Those don't look like knives," she remarked bluntly. "How did you make them? Magic?"

Jace reeled; Alec, too, looked horrified. The idea was ridiculous; magic was for warlocks, demon spawn. Humans didn't do magic, they just didn't. It was a violation of their core nature.

"The funny thing about mundies," he said, directing his words to the ceiling, "is how obsessed with magic they are for a bunch of people who don't even know what the word means."

Clary scowled at him. "I know what it means."

"No, you don't," he said. "You just think you do. Magic is a dark and elemental force, not just a lot of sparkly wands and crystal balls and talking goldfish."

She frowned. "I never said it was a lot of talking goldfish, you-"

He waved a hand, not really paying attention to the conversation anymore. Words tumbled from his mouth automatically, but he didn't register them. "Just because you call an electric eel a rubber duck doesn't make it a rubber duck, does it?" Although, to him, they might as well be the same thing. "And God help the poor bastard who decides they want to take a bath with the duckie."

"You're driveling," she said, her eyebrows raised in amusement.

"I'm not," he denied in as dignified a tone as possible.

"Yes, you are," broke in Alec. He turned to Clary, his voice suddenly taking on a superior, professional attitude. "Look, we don't do magic, okay? That's all you need to know about it."

She seemed to struggled for a moment, probably deciding whether or not to punch Alec in the face. It seemed a bit harsh, but Clary was full of , she turned to Jace. "Hodge said I can go home."

The seraph blade slid from Jace's hand and clattered to the floor. Home? Her? A million different scenarios ran through his head, none of them good. They all ended up with her dying in his arms, for some reason. Home wasn't safe. " _He said what?"_

 __"To look through my mother's things," she explained, slightly startled by his reaction. "If you go with me."

He'd have gone with her anyways, whether or not she wanted him to. Behind him, Alec let out an exhale. " _Jace."_

It was too late; Jace was already gone. But Clary still seemed to feel the need to explain herself. "If you really want to prove that my mom or dad was a Shadowhunter, then we should look through my mom's things. What's left of them."

There was nothing he wanted more.

"Down the rabbit hole," he said, flashing her a smile. "Good idea. If we go right now, we should have another three, four hours of daylight."

There was a slight noise as Alec rose from his chair. "Do you want me to come with you?" he asked, voice expectant.

So you can scowl at me and insult Clary the whole way? Hell no. "That's all right," Jace said, not even bothering to turn around. "Clary and I can handle this on our own."

Clary, whose, wary gaze was still on Alec, flinched suddenly and turned away. Her face was pale, with good reason. Even Jace could feel Alec's hate-filled glare burning a hole through his back.

He strode down the hall, barely noticing Clary's struggle to keep up with him. "Have you got your house keys?" The question came out shorter, harsher than he'd intended, reflecting the strain of Alec's displeasure with him.

She turned her gaze to her shoes, sneakers the same color as her eyes. "Yeah."

"Good. Not that we couldn't break in, but we'd run a greater chance of disturbing any wards that might be up if we did." Jace was showing off. Again.

"If you say so." Her reply was strangely amiable, detached, as if she was merely following his lead. Something he didn't think she'd do willingly.

"Jace?"

"Yeah?"

"How did you know I had Shadowhunter blood? Was there some way you could tell?"

Ah, the one question he'd been trying to avoid. How could he tell her that he'd done it without thinking, that it had been mere instinct? "I guessed," he said, unlatching the door to the elevator and sliding open the gate, closing it behind her and pressing his finger to the cold metal button. "It seemed like the most likely explanation." That was the truth. Somewhat.

"You guessed? You must have been pretty sure, considering you could have killed me."

The elevator lurched upwards and Clary stumbled. Jace considered holding out a hand to help her, but was pretty sure that she wouldn't accept it until she got an answer from him. "I was ninety percent sure."

"I see." Her voice was strangely calm, quiet. Accepting to the point of suspicion.

He glanced at her and was so taken aback by her blank expression that he didn't notice her rising hand until it had struck him soundly across the cheek. His head whipped to the side and he rocked backwards on his heels, one hand pressed to the red mark on his face in surprise. "What the _hell_ was that for?"

Clary didn't look at him as she replied. "The other ten percent," she said, and said no more the rest of the way down.

Jace didn't open his mouth the whole way to Brooklyn, still recovering from the shock. Part of him was tempted, sorely, to label Clary as a first-class bitch. But he knew better. The good part of him guiltily realized that the slap had been overdue for far too long. He had, after all, risked damning her to one of the worst fates in all the worlds, demonic or Earth.

But he'd saved her life, too! He'd saved her ungrateful life and she had the nerve to _slap_ him? The Golden Boy of the Clave, the mega-Shadowhunter? It wasn't like this was his job or anything. It had stopped being his job when she'd been pronounced a Shadowhunter. He was only obligated to help mundanes. When he'd seen that she hadn't reacted negatively to the rune, he could've just left her and taken off to save his own hide.

But he hadn't. He'd stayed behind and dragged her broken, bloody body through the subway and in taxis until they'd reached the Institute. Then he'd supported her in front of Hodge and Alec, fighting people he'd known for years just for one girl.

Jace had to admit, the fact that she'd had the nerve to slap him was pretty awesome. And a little bit sexy. Isabelle had yelled at him plenty of times, socked him in the stomach often, once had even tried to drive a seraph blade up his ribs. But she'd never ever slapped him across the face. Come to think of it, no one had. And now Clary had done it twice.

He glanced at her and was slightly startled to find her staring back at him. Her eyes were narrowed in concentration on his features, and she didn't notice his gaze. The tightly focused expression reminded him of the way the Iron Sisters were described in Shadowhunter records: completely focused, with eyes that noticed the smallest detail of their work. An artist's way of seeing the world.

Slightly unnerved by her concentration, he said, "Can I help you with something?"

He watched her rise from the depths of her thoughts with a jerk. She nodded in the direction of two girls sitting farther down the train. "Those girls on the other side of the car are staring at you."

Jace was bored already. Still, for Clary's sake, he took a look at them. One was a brunette with straight hair and brown eyes, with a horrible fake tan and artfully torn clothing. Her friend, the blonde, had a fake tan as well, though it was slightly less noticeable. Her hair had slightly waves in it and she wore a tank-top and shorts. Typical mundie girls, nothing special.

"Of course they are," he said, turning to Clary with a vain air. "I am stunningly attractive."

Clary frowned at him. "Haven't you heard that modesty is an attractive trait?"

"Only from ugly people," he confided. She looked annoyed with this answer. "The meek may inherit the earth, but at the moment it belongs to the conceited. Like me." To prove his point, he winked at the girls. Instantly they flushed the color of beets and hid their faces in their long hair.

Jace smiled. It was good to see that he still had it. Clary hadn't appeared impressed by his looks or charms since she'd first met him, and he'd gotten worried that he was no longer as gorgeous as he'd thought.

Clary heaved a resigned sigh. "How come they can see you?"

"Glamours are a pain to use. Sometimes we don't bother." Why would he willingly cover up this beauty? He smiled to himself.

By the time they left the station and began to make their way up to Clary's house, Jace was in a better mood than before. He pulled a seraph blade from his pocket and flipped it across his knuckles. The tiny white scars on the back of his hands reminded him of the months of practice it had taken to master that one trick. Smiling at the way the blade caught the afternoon light, he began to hum.

"Do you have to do that?" Clary asked, sounding slightly irritated. "It's annoying.

He hummed louder. Any opportunity to annoy Clary was too precious to let alone.

"I'm sorry I smacked you," she said.

Jace went silent. He hadn't been expecting an apology. "Just be glad you hit me and not Alec," he said, remembering his _parabatai's_ intense dislike for Clary. "He would have hit you back."

"He seems to be itching for the chance." Clary kicked an empty soda can with her toe and it skittered onto the road. "What was it that Alec called you? Para-something?"

" _Parabatai,"_ Jace corrected her. "It means a pair of warriors who fight together - who are closer than brothers. Alec is more than just my best friend." As he spoke, a surge of pride coursed through him. Having a _parabatai,_ especially one as loyal and devoted as Alec, was a privilege few Shadowhunters had. Of course, there were also the benefits, such as the extra runes and doubled power. "My father and his father were _parabatai_ when they were young. His father was my godfather - that's why I live with them. They're my adopted family."

Clary didn't seem fazed by the flow of information. She had no idea, Jace realized, that she was the first outsider he'd ever opened himself up to. "But your last name isn't Lightwood," she said.

"No," he said, a tinge of wariness entering his voice. He was ready for her next words, the inevitable question that would come in the form of a probe, prying into his past. To his astonishment, she was silent, her attention fixed on the two-story brownstone before them.

Clary's house was ordinary - on the outside. Demon workings. In the afternoon sun, the brownstone glowed bronze. The flowers under the first floor window-sills were blooming nicely, butterflies and bees circling the brightly colored petals.

"It looks the same," Clary said, sounding perplexed.

"On the outside," Jace said grimly. Inside would be a different matter. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a Sensor, studying the faint demonic disturbances it was picking up.

Clary craned her neck over his arm with interest. "So that's a Sensor? What does it do?"

"It picks up frequencies, like a radio does, but these frequencies are demonic in origin."

"Demon shortwave?"

"Something like that." Jace walked towards the house, focusing most of his attention of the Sensor but keeping the house in view, not wanting to be caught by surprise. As he ascended the stairs, the Sensor began to click softly. Halfway up, it stopped.

He frowned. "It's picking up trace activity, but that could be just left over from last night. I'm not getting anything strong enough for there to be demons present now."

Clary let out a sigh of relief. "Good." She bent down and retrieved her key from under the mat. Jace peered over her bent body at the four claw marks gouged in the wood of the door. A prickle of unease traveled down his spine.

He touched her arm lightly, and she looked up at him. "I'll go in first," he said quietly. Clary nodded and stepped aside to let him past. Her face was paler than usual, and her hands were trembling.

Jace pushed the door open the one hand and motioned Clary after him with the other. The hallway was silent and dark, but had no visible signs of destruction or violence. The downstair tenant - Madame Dorothea - was not in; her door was shut and locked, and no lights were on. The overhead bulb had gone out, and the skylight was too filthy to let in any sunlight.

A dark, sticky substance coated the wooden banister. Jace ran his hand over it and shuddered as the cold, wet something stuck to his hand. "Blood."

"Maybe it's mine." Clary's voice was small. "From the other night."

Jace shook his head. Every vein in his body was pulsing with dread. "It'd be dry be now if it were," he said. "Come on." He led the way up the stairs, his witchlight clutched in one hand. The landing was near pitch black, just like downstairs.

Clary fumbled with her key, her arms shaking. He watched her impatiently; out here, they were sitting ducks. "Don't breathe down my neck," she hissed finally, and he leaned back, tapping his foot on the ripped hallway carpet.

When the lock clicked open, Jace pulled Clary behind him. "I'll go in first."

They walked cautiously down the short hallway to the living room. Jace noticed at once that it had been cleaned up sometime between the night of the incident and now. The torn paintings had been cleared away, and the floor swept clean of the destruction. The curtains had been removed, the shutters closed, the furniture gone.

Clary's eyes were wide, and she turned slowly in a circle. Once she had taken in the living room, she moved to the kitchen. Jace followed her, alert for anything that might have been hiding in the shadows.

The kitchen had been stripped clean, too. The microwave had been removed, along with the refrigerator, the chairs, the table. The cabinets were completely empty. "What would demons want with our microwave?" she said, her voice quivering slightly.

Jace shook his head and cast a glance at his Sensor, which was silent. "I don't know, but I'm not sensing any demonic presence right now. I'd say they're long gone." A large part of him was relieved. Fighting off demons was much harder when one had sworn to protect someone on top of that.

Clary cast one last glance around the kitchen. "Are you satisfied?" Jace asked her. "There's nothing here." He was eager to get out before he'd have to take that statement back.

Stubborn as always, she shook her head. "I want to see my room."

Jace opened his mouth to refuse, but thought better of it. Arguing with Clary was exceptionally hard; better they did what she wanted and get out quickly than stand here fighting. "If that's what it takes."

Clary navigated through the empty house to a white door that read her name in large, neon letters. Jace regarded it with amusement; Clary certainly loved to stand out. She reached for the door handle, but flinched when her hand came in contact with the metal.

Jace glanced at her in alarm, but she was already turning the knob, slower and with more effort than he would've thought needed for such a simple task, and-

The door blew off its hinges, white painted splinters of wood flying everywhere. Clary flew backward, slammed forcefully against the wall. SHe rolled onto her stomach, wincing.

Jace had pressed himself against the wall, eyes wide. Above him was a Forsaken, one of the biggest he'd ever seen. A true giant, as wide as an oak tree with an enormous double-bladed axe in one scarred white hand. His pasty, leathery skin was streaked with grime and blood, and was barely covered by filthy brown rags that stank worse than Alec's underwear. His face was slashed with scars, some smoking, some not. His flesh was rotting and sweaty, and his hair was matted with dirt.

He flicked his wrist and the seraph blade slid into his hand. "Sansanvi!" he cried, and a wicked sharp blade of pure adamas slid from the tube. Clary, still supine and cowering, gasped at the sight.

The Forsaken bellowed, a deep, agonizing sound that was somewhere stuck between humane and demonic. Jace lashed out and the blade raked the beast's arm, leaving a deep cut that bled, no, _oozed,_ black.

Taking advantage of the Forsaken's momentary pain, Jace whirled around and sprinted to Clary. She was pale and trembling, but she took his arm and hauled herself up, racing ahead of him down the hall at his urging. The beast was right behind them, its feet slamming into the floor like lead weights with remarkable force. Jace was unnerved at its speed; someone had trained this being, it was not an accident.

Once out the entryway and onto the landing, Jace slammed the door shut behind them. He locked it, knowing that it would only buy them a few extra seconds. But, hopefully, that would be all he needed.

A huge blow rattled the door and shook dust from the ceiling. Jace, flushed with the rush of battle, turned to Clary. "Get downstairs! Get out of the-"

The door blew outwards, the hinges giving way at last. But Jace was too fast; before the door hit the ground, he was already on the top stair. A thrum ran through his body, lighting his nerves on fire. His blood boiled with the excitement.

He half-turned to Clary, who was a few steps below him. "Go! Run!" But his words were drowned out by the ear-shattering roar of the Forsaken. It rushed towards him, huge scarred hands outstretched. The axe whipped through the air towards him, but Jace ducked and smiled at the thunk it made as it buried itself in the banister.

Jace laughed. He couldn't help it. The high of battle, coupled with his lightning-fast speed and the pumping adrenaline, had set his entire body ablaze. He could do anything.

The Forsaken growled at the sound and lurched towards Jace, who raised the seraph blade in a deadly arc, burying it up to the hilt in the giant's fleshy shoulder. It stood in front of him, swaying a bit. Then, in a last effort, it lunged towards Jace and caught hold of his clothes, pulling him underneath the giant's huge mass.

Pain exploded in his body, like tiny little grenades in his limbs. His arm made a sickening crack as it twisted behind him and he knew that it was broken, but at the moment he was more worried about the stinking mass that was now crushing his legs. Not wanting to increase the pain, he lay still, taking in deep breaths and wincing with every inhale.

He felt a hand, small and gentle, on his shoulder. "Jace?"

Clary. Her voice, quiet and musical and soft, seemed to ease his pain a bit. He opened his eyes and her face swam into view. Pale, her eyes greener than he'd ever seen before and strangely luminous, her vibrant locks framing her face.

 _Beautiful,_ he thought, then mentally shook his head. He was probably approaching delirium. "Is it dead?" he asked her, his voice coming out in a pained croak.

Her expression was grim. "Almost."

"Hell." He shifted and winced. His legs were screaming with agony. "My legs-"

"Hold still." Clary crawled around the his head and slipped her slender hands under his arms. Long, pale fingers wrapped around his arms and pulled. Pain rocketed up and down his body and he groaned, but his legs slid out from under the creature's body.

She stood up, looking concerned. "Is your arm all right?"

"No. Broken." He glanced down at his jacket, where a tubular object pressed against the inside of his pocket. "Can you reach into my pocket?"

Clary looked at him, hesitant, but something in his face must have convinced her. "Which one?"

"Inside jacket, right side. Take out one of the seraph blades and hand it to me."

She stepped closer to him, looking slightly nervous, and slipped her hand into his pocket. He could feel her fingers scrabbling around, touching, feeling. His lips were barely inches away from her neck, and he could smell her scent: rosewater, lemongrass, blood, sweat. She drew out the seraph blade and stepped away hastily, handing the glass tube to him.

"Thanks," he said, running a finger over the smooth, cool surface. "Sanvi," he murmured, and the blade slid out, glinting wickedly in the dim light. The glow lit up his face as he glanced up at her. "Don't look," he warned.

He turned to the Forsaken and raised the blade over his head. The huge body spasmed beneath him, a writhing mass of scars and black blood. He brought down the blade, burying it into the giant's throat. The movement sent pain through his body like a shockwave, and he groaned.

Clary was watching, her face paler than usual. "I told you not to look," he said.

"I thought it would disappear," she said, her voice very quiet. "Back to its own dimension - you said." There was a strange lilt to her voice, as if she was desperate to put sense to this new reality.

"I said that's what happens to demons when they die." He shrugged his jacket off, ignoring the scream of pain. The material was soaked in sweat. "That wasn't a demon." Although Forsaken were like demons, just as evil and just as inhuman.

With his good hand, he drew out his stele. Clary's eyes snapped to it and stayed there.

Jace grinned at her. "This is a stele," he said, touching the tip to his blood spattered skin. The familiar burn flared at the touch, and thick black line swirled outwards. It was sloppy, because his right arm just had to be the non-broken one. But the iratze did its job.

"And this," he said, gesturing at the completed rune, "is what happens when Shadowhunters are wounded."

Clary watched in wide-eyed wonder as the Mark sank into his skin. The familiar scar left behind barely showed up, but it was there. Jace let out a sigh of pleasure, as the pain dissipated, as if sucked up by a vacuum of relief. Slowly, he began to move his arm back and forth, gently at first but then with more ease and confidence.

She looked simply astonished. "That's amazing," she said in a hushed voice. "How did you-?"

Jace grinned at her awe as he explained. He never had much of an audience when he was out demon killing. Sure, for the first few years, Isabelle and Alec had been sufficient, but lately they had been expectant. Besides, they were Shadowhunters too. Runes didn't surprise them.

Suddenly, a thought struck him. "We're going to have to report this to Hodge," he said contemplatively, prodding the giant's supine body with his foot. "He'll freak out." The thought of old Hodge, with his wrinkled hands and thin gray hair, running around in a panic amused Jace.

Clary frowned. A lock of her scarlet hair slipped from behind her ear. "Why will he freak?" she asked. "And I get that that thing isn't a demon - that's why the Sensor didn't register it, right?"

He hesitated, then nodded. Could she take what he was about to tell her? "You see the scars all over its face?"

"Yes."

"Those were made with a stele. Like this one." He touched a finger to the tubular wand at his belt. "You asked me what happens when you carve Marks onto someone who doesn't have Shadowhunter blood. Just one Mark could burn you, even kill you, but a lot of Marks, powerful ones?" Carved into the flesh of a totally ordinary human being with no trace of Shadowhunter ancestry?" He looked down at the giant at his feet, a huge white mass covered in paper-thin scars, like a web cruely carved onto every inch of skin. "You get this. The runes are agonizingly painful. The Marked ones go insane - the pain drives them out of their minds."He shuddered, thinking about how it would've been like if he'd done that to Clary. Seeing her turned into a monster like the Forsaken before them. "They become fierce, mindless killers. They don't sleep or eat unless you make them, and they die, usually quickly. Runes have great power and can be used for great good - but they can be used for evil. The Forsaken are evil."

She stared at him, horrified. "But why would anyone do that to themselves?"

Jace shook his head hastily. "Nobody would. It's something that gets done to them. The Forsaken are loyal to the one who Marked them, and they're fierce killers. They can obey simple commands, too. It's like having a - a slave army." He glanced upstairs, at the splintered door and the pool of blood on the landing. With a grimace he made up his mind. "I'm going back upstairs."

"But there's nothing there." There was a hint of desperation in her voice; she really wanted to believe that the monsters had left her life for good.

But where would be the fun in that? "There might be more of them," he said, his body already thrumming, anticipating the coming battle. "You should wait here." He smiled to himself, the hero, and started up the stairs.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," cried a voice that was most definitely not Clary's. But that accent, the whiny old-woman quality, something about it was vaguely familiar.

Both he and Clary whirled and stared at the woman at the base of the stairs. She was tall, dressed in a purple silk robe, adorned in gold chains and bracelets made of various little stones.

"Madame Dorothea?" Clary sounded as incredulous as Jace felt. He was stock-still, disbelieving. How could Clary's neighbor, an old fraud who'd been living downstairs to her for over thirteen years, know about the other reality?

"More what?" asked Clary, walking towards Dorothea.

"More Forsaken," Dorothea answered, quite cheerfully. She swept a glance over the wreckage and clucked disapprovingly. "You have made a mess, haven't you? I'm sure you weren't planning on cleaning up either. Typical."

Jace's mouth finally came unstuck and he managed to gasp out the words. "But you're a _mundane."_

"So observant," she said, her eyes glinting with dislike. "The Clave _really_ broke the mold with you."

His incredulity was rapidly vanishing. In its place was anger, growing stronger with each passing second. "You know about the Clave?" he demanded loudly. "You knew about them, and you knew there were Forsaken in this house, and you didn't notify them? Just the existence of Forsaken is a crime against the Covenant-"

Madame Dorothea drew herself up angrily. "Neither the Clave nor Covenant have ever done anything for me," she spat, her New York accent vanishing, replaced by the familiar lilt of Idris-bred. "I owe them nothing."

Clary shot him a look. "Jace, stop it." Turning back to Dorothea, she said, "If you know about the Clave and the Forsaken, then maybe you know what happened to my mother?" Jace understood the undercurrent of desperation in her voice; he without any either mother or father sympathized.

The old woman shook her head pityingly. "My advice to you," she said, as calmly as if she was discussing the weather, "is to forget about your mother. She's gone."

Clary stumbled, and in an instant Jace was beside her, his hand wrapping around her elbow to steady her. "You mean she's dead?" asked Clary, her voice barely a whisper. Something pulled in Jace's chest; he felt her pain, and it _hurt._

"No," said Dorothea slowly, almost reluctantly. Jace felt anger and dislike flare up inside of him. "I'm sure she's alive. For now."

Clary stood straight up, her face taking on a look of grim determination. "Then I have to find her. You understand? I have to find her before-"

The seeress held up one bejeweled hand. "I don't want to involve myself in Shadowhunter business," she said cooly.

"But you knew my mother. She was your neighbor-"

This was going nowhere. If Jace was going to get any information, he would have to play into the one thing that had power over Dorothea: the Silent Brothers. Shadowhunters were dangerous and powerful, and the Brothers were a force to reckon with. Dorothea couldn't say no.

When the old woman heard his threat, her face paled considerably. "Oh, for the-" Madame Dorothea glanced back at her door, then at them again. "I suppose you might as well come in." She stepped aside to let them through. "I'll tell you what I can." She fixed her hawk-like gaze of Jace. "But if you tell anyone I helped you, Shadowhunter, you'll wake up tomorrow with snakes for hair and an extra pair of arms."

"That might be nice, an extra pair of arms," he said contemplatively. "Handy in a fight."

"Not if they're growing out of your neck," she snarled.

Not willing to let her get the best of him, he smiled mildly. "Yikes."

"Yikes is right, Jace Wayland."

Jace started violently, a feeling of unease creeping into his mind. Clary looked at him. "Wayland?"

"It's my last name," he said, shaken. "I can't say that I like that she knows it."

They stared at the dark entryway to the apartment, where Madame Dorothea had disappeared moments ago. "Still," said Clary, breaking the silence. "I think we might as well try talking to her. What have we got to lose?"

Jace looked at her and half-smiled. "Once you've spent a bit more time in our world," he said quietly, "you won't ask me that again."

 **Hi guys! Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry for the long wait...the last few weeks have been hectic. Hope you guys haven't given up on me :)**

 **Anyways, enjoy the chapter. Also, listen to the song Maintenant ou Jamais by Dry featuring Tal. Thanks!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Hi guys! This chapter was the filler, the one that gives information. I also couldn't leave it out, because the chapter before ended on a sort of cliff-hanger. So the reason for the long wait is because I DON'T LIKE WRITING THIS CHAPTER. I mean, I didn't.**

 **Listen to the following songs:**

 **Compass by Jonathan Thulin**

 **Circles by machineheart**

 **Danger by BTS**

 **And a special special shout-out to one of my biggest supporters, ClaryH! Enjoy the chapter!**

Jace followed Clary into the apartment, senses abuzz. It was dimly lit, most likely for dramatic effect, and smelled strongly of incense. He wrinkled his nose and looked around, taking in the various astrological posters, the bead curtains, the rows and rows of voodoo junk. Everything about this place screamed _fraud._

Madame Dorothea stuck her wrinkled, sharp-featured face through a bead curtain and frowned at them. "Interested in chiromancy?" she asked Clary, who was looking around wide-eyed. "Or just nosy?"

"Neither," said Clary, trailing her finger along a row of dusty books. "Can you really tell fortunes?"

Jace snorted. Dorothea and Clary paid no attention to him.

"My mother had a great talent," said Dorothea airily, waving one bejeweled hand. "She could see a man's future in his hand in the leaves at the bottom of his teacup. She taught me some of her tricks." She turned her hawk-like gaze to Jace, who was concentrating in a wily-looking deck of cards. "Speaking of tea, young man, would you like some?"

Jace looked up to find both staring at him. "W-what?"

"Tea. I find it both settles the stomach and concentrates the mind. Wonderful drink, tea."

"I'll have tea," volunteered Clary. Looking at her, Jace realized how hungry she must be. After all, she hadn't had anything since, what, that coffee in Java Jones? She'd also just grappled with a Forsaken. There was dark, bruise-like circles under her eyes, and her skin was sickly pale.

"All right," he said. For her sake. "As long as it isn't Earl Grey," he added, remembering his unfortunate encounter with the drink in Paris. "I hate bergamot."

Clary looked him, coppery eyebrows raised. "You hate bergamot?" she asked, looking amused.

Jace, who was now studying a bookshelf, glanced back at her, momentarily distracted from analyzing a book on palm-reading. "You have a problem with that?"

"You may be the only guy my age I've ever met who knows what bergamot is, much less that it's in Earl Grey tea."

He looked at her sideways. Was she impressed? Weirded out? Judging by the look of admiration on her face, he chose the former. "Yes, well, I'm not like other guys." He turned his attention back to the bookshelf, sliding out a dusty green book from between two thick volumes on crystal balls. "Besides, at the Institute we have to take classes in basic medicinal uses for plants. It's required."

"I figured all your classes were stuff like Slaughter 101 and Beheading for Beginners."

Jace smiled and flipped a page. "Very funny, Fray."

A clang from behind him told him that Clary had dropped something. When he turned, he saw her, paler than ever, with a large vase at her feet. "Don't call me that."

"Why not?" he asked, trying to figure out what he'd said wrong. "It's your last name, isn't it?"

She turned away from him, but he could tell that she was fighting back tears. Suddenly he remembered where he'd picked up that nickname: Simon. That weasel-faced, snot-nosed, no-good mundie friend of hers. Ah...

"No reason," she said quietly.

"I see," he replied, his voice laced with something even he couldn't place. Shaking his head, he slid the book back into place. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, of his caliber in this hole. Every book and tome was something to do with palmistry, tea-cup readings, constellations. No classics, no French or Latin. "This must be the trash she keeps up front to impress credible mundanes," he spat, disgusted. "There's not one serious text here."

She threw him a cross look. "Just because it's not the kind of magic you do-" she began hotly.

He scowled, silencing her before she got too far. Magic was not something to smile at, not something one should _wish_ to have. "I _do not do magic,"_ he snarled. "Get it through your head. Human beings are magic users. It's part of what makes them human. Warlocks can only use magic because they have demon blood."

"But I've seen you use magic," she said, as if contradicting him was the highest priority now. "You use enchanted weapons-"

"I," he interrupted loudly, "use tools that are magical. And just to be able to do that, I have to undergo rigorous training. The rune tattoos on my skin protect me, too. If you tried to use one of the seraph blades, for instance, it'd probably burn your skin, maybe kill you."

"Well, what if I got the tattoos?" Clary asked. "Could I use them then?"

What was she trying to do? Find out how to become a Shadowhunter? "No," he said crossly. "The Marks are only part of it. There are tests, ordeals, levels of training - look, just forget it, okay? Stay away from my blades. In fact, don't touch any of my weapons without my permission."

She huffed. "Well, there goes my plan for selling them on eBay."

He stared at her, utterly bewildered. Was she speaking a different language? That was impossible; he knew most world languages, and was sure that Clay didn't know any other than English. "Selling them on _what?"_

"A mythical place of magical power," she said with a superior smile.

Jace confused, settled on turning the conversation into a topic he knew. "Most myths are true, at least in part."

"I'm starting to get that."

Madame Dorothea peeked her head through the bead curtain again. "Tea's on the table," she said cheerfully. "There's no need for you two to keep standing there like donkeys. Come into the parlor."

"There's a parlour?" asked Clary, setting down the poster.

"Of course there's a parlour," said the old woman. "Where else would I entertain?"

Jace snorted and shoved his hands into his pockets. "I'll just leave my hat with the footman."

Madame Dorothea glared at him. "If you were half as funny as you thought you were, my boy, you'd be twice as funny as you are." She whirled around, her purple cloak twisting about her legs, and disappeared behind the curtain again.

Jace quirked one side of his mouth downwards. "I'm not quite sure what she meant by that."

"Really," said Clary cooly. "It made _perfect_ sense to me." With that, she followed Dorothea into the next room.

Jace stood for a few seconds, blinking. Then, with a strange half-smile, he pushed aside the bead curtain and entered the room.

The parlor was darker than the rest of the apartment, dimly lit and smothered in incense smoke. The outside light was cut out by thick velvet draperies drawn across the windows. Stuffed crows and hawks watched from perches on the wall, dark beads in place of eyes. Thick Oriental rugs covered the floor, brown and maroon and dark blue. Several pink armchairs were clustered in a semicircle around a large wooden rocking-chair and a table, on which was a pack of decorated tarot cards and a tea set.

Clary and Madame Dorothea were sitting in the armchairs. Clary was eyeing the plate of sandwiches next to the tea set longingly. Dorothea, seeing her look, smiled slyly. "Have some tea," she said, lifting up the put with one wrinkled hand. "Milk? Sugar?"

Jace crossed the room and took a seat next to Clary. He reached out and took the sandwich platter, examining each. They seemed alright; triangle, fresh, made with soft white bread. It was too dark to see the inside, so he picked one up and took an experimental bite.

The wet, crunchy, slimy texture hit his tongue and he grimaced, forcing down the swallow. The seasoning was fine, but cucumber - ugh. Clary was watching him. "Cucumber," he said.

"I always think cucumber sandwiches are just the thing for tea, don't you?" Madame Dorothea inquired dreamily, more to herself than to anyone else in particular.

"I hate cucumber," Jace said with a grimace, and handed the rest of the sandwich to Clary. She took it and bit in, chewing it slowly. Savoring the taste of the first food she'd had for an unbelievable amount of time.

She finished the sandwich and looked at him, eyebrow raised. "Cucumber and bergamot," she said with amusement. "Is there anything else you hate that I ought to know about?"

Jace peered over the rim of his tea cup at Dorothea, who was watching them with an infuriatingly pleasant expression. "Liars," he said, lowering his eyelashes over his eyes in the way he knew intimidated people.

"You can call me a liar all you want," said the witch calmly, setting down her tea cup. "It's true, I'm not a warlock. But my mother was."

The tea in his mouth suddenly turned violently bitter, and he choked. The way she told the lie was unbelievable, with the perfect calmness as if she thought that what she said was completely true. "That's impossible," he gasped out, wincing at the nasty taste in his mouth.

"Why impossible?" inquired Clary, taking a sip of her tea.

"Because," said Jace, letting forth a rush of breath, "they're half-human, half-demon. All warlocks are crossbreeds. And _because_ they're crossbreeds, they can't have children. They're sterile."

"Like mules," said Clary thoughtfully. Her eyes were slightly unfocused. "Mules are sterile crossbreeds."

Jace turned to look at her, momentarily distracted. Clary had to be the single most unpredictable person in all the dimensions. "Your knowledge of livestock is truly astounding," he said. "All Downworlders are in some part demon, but only warlocks are the children of demon parents. It's why their powers are the strongest."

She looked at him, wide-eyed. "Vampires and werewolves - they're part demon too? And faeries?"

"Vampires and werewolves," said Jace grimly, "are the result of diseases brought by demons from their home dimensions. Most demon diseases are deadly to humans, but in these cases they worked strange changes on the infected, without actually killing them. And faeries-"

"Faeries are fallen angels," interrupted Dorothea, sipping at her tea, "cast down out of heaven for their pride."

"That's the legend," Jace said, unable to keep the derisive note out of his voice. "It's also said that they're the offspring of demons and angels, which always seemed more likely to me. Good and evil, mixing together. Faeries are as beautiful as angels are supposed to be, but they have a lot of mischief and cruelty in them."

"Supposed to be?" Clary cocked her head, confused. "You mean angels don't-"

"Enough about angels," snapped Dorothea. "It's true warlocks can't have children. My mother adopted me because she wanted to make sure there'd be someone to attend this place after she was gone. I don't have to master magic myself. I only have to watch and guard."

"Guard what?" asked Clary curiously.

Good question, thought Jace. Discreetly, he cast his gaze around the room. There was nothing suspicious, nothing that required serious guarding. Or at least nothing he could see.

"What indeed?" Dorothea reached for a sandwich, but the plate was empty. Jace glanced at Clary in amusement; it had been a while since he'd met a girl who wasn't afraid of indulging herself. Isabelle and the other girls he'd met all fussed about their weight. Although, he thought, glancing at Clary's slender waist, _she_ didn't need to worry about her weight.

Dorothea grinned, showing several gold teeth. "It's good to see a young woman eat her fill. In my day, girls were robust, strapping creatures, not the twigs they are nowadays."

"Um, thanks," said Clary awkwardly, setting down her cup.

The moment the cup touched the table, Madame Dorothea pounced on it. Clary, looking startled, drew her hand away from the cup with apprehension.

"What?" she asked nervously. "Did I...crack the cup or something?"

"She's reading your tea leaves," Jace replied, rather scornful, but he leaned over the cup as well. Perhaps, perhaps, there would be something to this spiritual mumbo-jumbo.

"Is it bad?" Clary chewed on her fingernails, looking anxious.

Madame Dorothea dropped the cup, looking distracted. "It is neither bad nor good. It is confusing," she said shortly, directing her attention to Jace. He raised an eyebrow at her. "Give me your cup," she demanded irritably.

He frowned at her, tightening his grip on the porcelain. "But I'm not done with my-"

With surprising strength, Dorothea snatched the cup from his hand and dumped out the remaining tea unceremoniously back into the teapot. With an expression of intense concentration, she gazed at the soggy brown mush at the bottom. Jace watched her, uneasy. "I see violence in your future, a great deal of bloodshed by you and others," she announced. "You'll fall in love with the wrong person. Also, you have an enemy."

Jace's blood ran cold. _You'll fall in love with the wrong person._ What did that mean? He'd never fallen love, not even remotely. He didn't _do_ committment. Who could possibly be this person who would capture his heart?

Dorothea had picked up Clary's cup again. She turned it round and round before setting it down, shaking her head. "There is nothing for me to read here. The images are jumbled, meaningless." She studied Clary, who was still rather pale. "Is there a block in your mind?"

Clary shook her head, sending her curls bouncing. "A what?"

"Like a spell that might conceal a memory, or might have blocked your Sight."

Clary frowned. "No, of course not."

"Don't be so hasty," said Jace. If she did have a block, everything would make sense. Sense was something he relied on. Everything needed to fit. He turned to Dorothea. "It's true that she claims not to remember ever having had the Sight before this week. Maybe-"

Clary flushed. "Maybe I'm just a late developer," she snapped. Seeing Jace's raised eyebrows, she added, "And don't leer at me, just because I said that."

He lowered his eyebrows, assuming the air of a wronged innocent. "I wasn't going to."

"You were working up to a leer, I could tell."

"Maybe," he admitted, "but that doesn't mean that I'm wrong. Something's blocking your memories, I'm almost sure of it."

Dorothea cleared her throat and straightened up. "Very well," she said. "Let us try something else." With pursed lips, she pulled the silk-wrapped tarot cards to her and unwound the binding. She brushed her hand across the cards, fanning the out with her touch.

Wide-eyed, Jace stared at the intricate designs on the backs of the cards. Gold swirls, dashes of blue and green and silver like an otherworldly ocean. They caught and held his gaze intensely.

"Slide your hand over these until you touch one that feels hot or cold, or seems to cling to your fingers," said Dorothea, sitting back in her chair. "Then draw that one and show it to me."

Jace snorted derisively, but watched Clary intently as she sild her hand over the cards. She selected one near the end and flipped it over. Jace, instantly recognizing the design, let out a small gasp.

A slim, pale hand, inked with the swirls of Marks, holding up a pale gold goblet. Brilliant rays streamed out from behind the goblet, illuminating the intricate jeweled designs patterning its surface. The Mortal Cup.

"The Ace of Cups," murmured a bemused Dorothea. She peered at Clary, a half-smile flitting across her wrinkled face. "The love card."

Clary was staring at the design, looking rather sick. She stroked the artwork with one trembling finger. "This is a good card, right?"

"Not necessarily." Madame Dorothea eyes gleamed. "The most terrible things men do, they do in the name of love. But it is a powerful card. What does it mean to you?"

Clary loosened her grip on the card and let it flutter down to the table. "That my mother painted it," she said, brushing her thumb over the thick paint. "She did, didn't she?"

Dorothea nodded. "She painted the whole pack. A gift for me."

Jace's eyes narrowed. So Clary's mother, a 'mundane' for over thirteen years, had painted the Mortal Cup onto a set of cards and had given the set to the daughter of a warlock who just happened to live right underneath her. "So you say," he said slowly, coldly, rising from his seat. Dorothea looked at him coolly. "How well did you know Clary's mother?"

"Jocelyn knew what I was, and I knew what she was. We didn't talk about it much. Sometimes she did favors for me - like painting this pack of cards - and in return I'd tell her a piece of Downworlder gossip. There was a name she asked me to keep an ear out for, and I did."

Now they were getting somewhere. Jace kept his face impassive, not wanting to convey how excited he was. "What name was that?"

"Valentine."

He should have known. Clary, recognizing it probably from that night at the club, sat up straighter. "And when you say you knew what Jocelyn was, what do you mean?" he asked. "What was she?"

Madame Dorothea heaved a sigh. "Jocelyn was what she was," she said calmly. "But in her past she's been like you. A Shadowhunter. One of the Clave."

Triumph surged through Jace. He'd known, he'd _known_ that Clary was special. That she couldn't possibly be a mundane. Jocelyn Fray was a Shadowhunter. She had Shadowhunter blood. Therefore, so did Clary.

"No," said Clary weakly. Her eyes were wide, shocked. The brilliant green had been dulled to a pale honeydew color.

"It's true," said Dorothea, looking almost sympathetic. "She chose to live in this house precisely because-"

"Because this is a sanctuary," finished Jace. He'd finally put two and two together. It made so much sense; of course Jocelyn would choose here! The perfect place to hide from her past. "Your mother was a warlock. She made this space, hidden, protected, probably surrounded by wards - it's a perfect spot for Downworlders on the run to hide out. That's what you do, isn't it? You hide criminals here."

The old woman huffed. "You _would_ call them that. You're familiar with the motto of the Covenant?"

As if Hodge hadn't drilled it into his head thousands of times. " _Sed lex dura lex,"_ he said. "The Law is hard, but it is the Law."

"Sometimes the Law is too hard. I know the Clave would have taken me from my mother if they could. You want me to let them do the same to others?"

"So you're a philanthropist," spat Jace. "I suppose you expect me to believe that Downworlders don't pay you handsomely for the privilege of your sanctuary?"

"We can't all get by on our looks like you."

Jace thought of how important a find like this would be to the Clave. They would finally find out where their prey had been escaping to. "I should tell the Clave about you-"

Clary broke in, looking desperate. "You can't! You promised!"

"I never promised anything." He'd finally realized what was behind those thick velvet curtains. Not windows, no. They were only a few windows, as he'd seen from the outside, and way too many curtains. He ripped open the curtain next to, revealed an intricately designed door. The eye-shaped knob in the center seemed to wink at him. "You want to tell me what this is?"

Clary looked at him as if he was crazy. "It's a door, Jace."

"Shut up," he said, barely registering her comment. "It's a Portal, isn't it?"

"It's a five-dimensional door," said Dorothea rather amiably, pointedly ignoring Jace. "Dimensions aren't all straight lines, you know. There are dips and folds and nooks and crannies all tucked away. It's a bit hard to explain when you've never studied dimensional theory, but, in essence, that door can take anywhere you want to go. It's-"

"An escape hatch," Jace interrupted. Everything was coming together. Making sense. "That's why your mother wanted to live here. So she could always flee at a moments notice."

Clary frowned. "Then why didn't she-" Her eyes widened with horror. "Because of me," she half-whispered. "She wouldn't leave without me that night. So she stayed."

He pursed his lips, sympathetic. "You can't blame yourself," he said, in as gentle a voice as he could muster.

Tears were gathering in her eyes. Trembling, she stood and half-stumbled towards the Portal. "I want to see where she would have gone," said Clary, reaching for the knob. "I want to see where she was going to escape to-"

"Clary, no!" Jace lunged for her, fingers stretched, but his skin only just brushed hers and she was gone, through the Portal. He whipped around to where Dorothea stood, staring in horror at the spot where Clary had been moments before. "This isn't over," he hissed, and flung himself through the Portal, and into empty space.


	7. Chapter 7

**Hey guys! It's been, like, 1000 years since I last updated...sorry. Here is the next installment of City of Bones: Jace POV. This one's a little short, but I hope you like it. SIMON'S HERE!**

 **Songs:**

 **Way Too Deep by Grabbitz**

 **Friends by Grabbitz feat. Faustix**

 **Icy by Approaching Nirvana**

 **305 by Approaching Nirvana**

Darkness closed in on him like a wave, rushing in from all directions. His throat closed up, his insides turning to water. Jace hated Portaling simply because of the horrendous sense of freefall, the choking helplessness as he tumbled down into a bottomless pit.

Branches caught at his clothes as he reappeared into the real world. He tucked himself into a ball, prepared to roll as soon as he hit the ground. But when he did land, it was not ground he hit.

His forehead hit another's, his elbows and knees tangling up in someone else's. He was uncomfortably pressed against a human body, caught in their mess of hair and limbs. From under him, the person squirmed. An elbow caught him in the stomach and momentarily knocked the wind from him.

"Owww," he said indignantly. "You elbowed me."

Clary's irritated reply issued from somewhere beneath him. "Well, you _landed_ on me."

Jace pushed himself up and braced his forearms on either side of Clary. Her scarlet hair was tangled and dirty, fanned out under her head like a cushion. The branches had gouged scratched into her neck and Isabelle's tanktop. He grinned down at her.

"Well, you didn't leave me much choice, did you?" he asked, strangely amused. "Not after you decided to leap merrily through that Portal like you were jumping the F train. You're just lucky it didn't dump us out in the East River."

"You didn't have to come after me."

"Yes, I did," he said. "You're far too inexperienced to protect yourself in a hostile situation without me." Although, having seen what she was capable of, he was starting to doubt those words.

She rolled her eyes. "That's sweet. Maybe I'll forgive you."

"For what?"

"For telling me to shut up."

He opened his mouth to protest, closed it, then opened it again. Yes, he had technically told her to shut up, but he hadn't meant it. Not really. "I did not... Well, I did, but you were-" He kept sputtering, searching for the words.

"Never mind," said Clary, rolling out from under him. She craned her head to look behind him, at whoever's property they'd so rudely trespassed. A look of horror crossed her features.

"I know where we are," she whispered.

He looked at her, alert. "What?"

She pulled her legs out from under his torso, pitching him to the side. He caught himself and rolled gracefully to an upright position, holding out a hand to help her up. Stubborn as always, she ignored it and scrambled up on her own, dragging a hand through her tangled hair.

They were standing in front of a gray clapboard house, almost identical to the ones around it, all neatly lined up in a row like a line of birds on a branch. Surrounding the house was a chain link fence that barred entrance. A locked gateway led to a gravel drive, in which deep tire ruts were carved.

A sign hung on the peeling white door. " _Garroway Books,"_ Jace read, his voice strangely loud in the uneasy silence. " _Fine Used, New, and Out-of-Print. Closed Saturdays."_ He cast a glance towards the locked door. Luke obviously hadn't been here a while; the stack of unread mail on the doorstep told him that much. The utter stillness sent the familiar crawling sense of dread through Jace.

"He lives in a bookstore?"

Clary glanced behind them at the empty street. "He lives behind the store," she said, craning her neck to see if anyone was around. "Jace, how did we get here?"

Jace bent down and began examining the padlock on the gateway closely. "Through the Portal," he said, sliding his hand under the lock to feel the weight. "It takes you to whatever place you're thinking of."

"But I wasn't thinking of here," she said, bouncing up and down on her toes in agitation. "I wasn't thinking of anywhere."

"You must have been." Jace wasn't about to argue the fact with Clary; he knew how Portals worked, and she didn't. Besides, it really didn't matter. Giving up on the lock, he stood up. Using his stele was not an option; Luke was sure to know how to recognize the signs of a Shadowhunter. After all, he _was_ best friends with one.

"What do you want to do?" he asked her.

Clary blew out a sigh. "Leave, I guess," she muttered. "Luke told me not to come here."

He raised his eyebrows. This wasn't like her at all. "And you just accept that?"

"Do I have a choice?" she said bitterly, wrapping her arms around herself tightly despite the heat.

"We always have choices," Jace said, leaning back against the fence. He studied her face for a while, then spoke in a low voice. "If I were you," he began slowly, "I'd be pretty curious about Luke right now." He glanced behind him. "Do you have keys to the house?"

She shook her head, a light coming to her eyes. "No, but sometimes he leaves the back door unlocked." She gestured to a narrow alley between Luke's house and the one next to it. It was dark and shadowy, more so as night fell, and littered with plastic soda cans and plastic bags.

Jace looked around quickly. "You sure he isn't home."

The corner of her mouth quirked up. "Well, his truck's gone, the store's closed, and all the lights are off. I'd say probably not."

"Then lead the way."

They half-walked, half-jogged to the safety of the shadowy alley, hiding to settle their nerves more than anything. Jace picked his way carefully through the mess of cans and bottles and other trash. He could tell by the brands _(Lucky Charms, Lay's, Tropicana)_ that most of it was Luke's neighbor, not him. Unless Luke was hiding a four-year-old in his house.

Behind the house was a fence, cutting off the house and its tiny backyard garden from the rest of the world. If a pile of weeds looking like _that_ could even be called a garden.

Jace dug the tip of his shoes into one of the gaps in the fence. Unlike the front of the house, this side had no gateway. "Up and over," he said, scaling the fence. He kept his weight even on his legs, so the fence didn't shake too much. He cleared the top and leapt deftly over the spiked top, landing not on the ground but once again on another being.

An ear-shattering yowl escaped the bushes underneath him and he fell to the side as whoever he'd landed on leapt out of the shrubbery and shot across the yard. Jace rolled to his feet, furious, and darted after the shape.

Whoever it was was undoubtedly _not_ a Shadowhunter. There was no grace to their gait, no evasive maneuvering whatsoever. Jace overtook them easily and lunged, throwing his body weight across the person - a boy, of about Jace's age. The boy struggled underneath Jace, who sat triumphantly on the boy's back, legs straddling his sides.

"Got him," Jace called back to Clary, who made her way over to the, brushing dirt off her - Isabelle's - jeans. When she arrived, Jace grabbed the boy's wrist, twisting it upwards. Showing off, maybe, just a little.

"Come on," he said, tightening his grip on the boy's wrist. "Let's see your face-"

The boy struggled upright, or as upright as he could go with Jace directly on top of him. "Get the hell off me, you pretentious asshole," he snarled, his voice _very_ familiar. Jace took a good look at him, at the mussed hair, the battered glasses, the pinched expression.

Clary stopped dead. " _Simon?"_

Jace let out a sigh. "Oh, God," he said, almost forlornly. "And here I'd actually hoped I'd gotten hold of something interesting." He pulled himself off Simon and leaned against the porch railing.

Letting out a motherly sigh, Clary rushed to Simon's side and helped him up. Jace watched with a growing sense of dislike for the boy as Clary gently brushed the dirt and grass from Simon's hair.

"But what were you doing hiding in Luke's bushes?" she asked, rubbing off a patch of dirt off his cheek with her thumb. Jace's stomach turned over, watching her. "That's the part I don't get."

Simon, humiliated, jerked away from her. "All right, Fray," he snarled in a way that was entirely too ungrateful considering what she'd been doing for him. "That's enough. I can fix my own hair."

She stepped back, raising her hands in surrender. "I mean, did Luke know you were there?"

"Of course he didn't know I was there," he snapped. "I've never asked him, but I'm sure he has a fairly stringent policy about random strangers lurking in his shrubbery."

"You're not random," she said fondly. "He knows you. The main thing is that you're all right."

Simon's dark eyes widened in disbelief. "That _I'm_ all right?" He laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. "Clary do you have any idea what I've been through this past couple of days?" He shook his head. "The last time I saw you, you were running out of Java Jones like a bat out of hell, and then you just...disappeared. You never picked up your cell - then your home phone was disconnected - then Luke told me you were off staying with some relatives upstate when I _know_ you don't have any other relatives." Anger had turned to desperation now. "I thought I'd done something to piss you off."

She was still looking at him in that tender way that made Jace's skin crawl. The weasel-faced brat didn't deserve her compassion. Angrily, he used the end of the stele to scratch at his nails, chipping one.

"What could you have possibly done?" she said softly, reaching out her hand for his. He pulled it away, not looking at her.

"I don't know," he said quietly. "Something."

Jace scoffed, keeping his eyes trained on his nails. He could feel the heat of Clary's glare.

"You're my best friend," she said. "I wasn't mad at you."

Simon huffed and crossed his arms. "Yeah, well, you clearly also couldn't be bothered to call me and tell me you were shacking up with some dyed-blond wannabe goth you probably met at Pandemonium." He blew out a breath. "After I spent the past three days wondering if you were dead."

Jace raised his eyebrows as high as they could go. "Dyed-blond wannabe goth," that was a new one. He glanced at Clary, who was looking distinctly uncomfortable.

"I was not shacking up!" she snapped. Jace could almost see her blush through the darkness.

He sighed, filing his thumbnail with the stele. "And my hair is naturally blond," he said. "Just for the record."

"So what have you been doing these past three days, then?" asked Simon, beady eyes squinted all the more with suspicion. "Do you really have a great-aunt Matilda who contracted avian flu and needed to be nursed back to health?"

Jace raised his eyebrows. Clary's mouth widened into an O. "Did Luke actually say that?"

"No. He just said you had gone to visit a sick relative, and that your phone probably just didn't work in the country. Not that I believed him. After he shooed me off his front porch, I went around the side of the house and looked in the back window. Watching him packing up a green duffel bag like he was going away for the weekend. That was when I decided to stick around and keep an eye on things."

"Why?" asked Clary. "Because he was packing a bag?"

"He was packing it full of weapons," Simon said grimly. "Knives, a couple daggers, even a sword. Funny thing is, some of the weapons looked like they were glowing." He looked at Clary, his expression sour. "Now, are you going to say I was imagining it?"

Jace was listening closely. It couldn't be a coincidence; Luke, best friend of an ex-Shadowhunter, leaving the house armed to the teeth with Shadowhunter weapons?

"No," Clary was saying. "I'm not going to say that." She turned to Jace, the last rays of sunlight setting her hair on fire. He could see the tiny amber sparks in the centers of her eyes, all the way from here. "I'm going to tell him the truth," she said.

"I know," he said quietly.

"Are you going to try and stop me?"

Jace looked down at his hands, criss-crossed with the patterned scars of previous Marks. Knives in his jacket, on his belt. He was a Shadowhunter, forced into silence. "My oath to the Covenant binds me," he said softly. "No such oath binds you."

She looked relieved, as if his approval meant a great deal to her. Turning back to Simon, she took a deep breath. "All right," she said, gearing up for the long monologue ahead. "Here's what you need to know."

Jace was half-asleep by the time Clary finished. Darkness had fallen completely, shrouding Simon's face. Clary's voice was almost gone.

"So," she rasped, clearing her throat. "Any questions?"

Simon raised his hand quickly. "Oh, I've got questions," he said, sounding slightly dazed. "Several."

"Okay. Shoot."

Jace raised his eyebrows - the amount of times he was doing this was ridiculous - and listened closely. Would Simon freak out? Would his utter mundaneness get the better of him and break that special little bond he shared with Clary?

"Now," said Simon, pointing at Jace. "He's a - what do you call people like him again?"

"He's a Shadowhunter," Clary said, tossing a look at Jace.

Jace was feeling distinctly bored. It had been bad enough to describe the complicated nature of his people; now Simon was here, and needed another explanation. He seemed a little skeptical of it all as well, eyeing Clary suspiciously. All the better if he didn't believe, Jace realized. He didn't want a mundane tagging along with them.

"And there are vampires, too?" said Simon, chewing on his lip ferociously. "Werewolves, warlocks, all that stuff."

Clary looked slightly nervous. "So I hear."

Simon looked at Jace for confirmation. "And you kill them too?"

Eyes down to his nails, Jace replied in a neutral tone. Simon clearly had too strong of a practical streak; he would think them crazy. "Only when they've been naughty."

At this, Simon promptly sat down. The darkness hid his face from view, but Jace knew what his expression would be. Shock, disbelief, then blankness as his brain gave up on trying to understand it all. He'd go into denial, as mundies so often did, and Jace would have to drag Clary away. There had been no point to spending three hours of explaining the unexplainable to someone so shallow.

"That is so _awesome,"_ said Simon.

Jace dropped his stele, startled. "Awesome?"

Simon was nodding vigorously. "Totally," he said, voice bright with enthusiasm. "It's like Dungeons and Dragons, but real."

 _Dungeons and Dragons?_ What in Raziel's name was that? Jace regarded Simon with apprehension. Was the kid mad? "It's like what?"

Clary looked slightly embarrassed. "It's a game," she explained hastily. "People pretend to be wizards and elves, and they kill monsters and stuff."

First of all, thought Jace, utterly stupefied, elves were a secluded race that _did not engage with monsters._ That was the sole job of Shadowhunters. And what kind of a game would it be where wizards went around killing demons, anyway? Did Simon and his stupid little friends spend their time frolicking around Central Park, dressed as Gandalf?

"I've heard of dungeons," he said delicately, not wanting to seem stupid. "Also dragons. Although they're mostly extinct."

Simon looked disappointed. "You've never killed a dragon?"

"He's probably never met a six-foot-tall hot elf woman in a fur bikini, either," she snapped. "Lay _off,_ Simon."

Six-foot elf? In a bikini? Not something Jace would say no to, but still. This kid was _weird._

"But vampires are hot, right?" The boy seemed desperate to find something solid he could compare to his clouded mess of a reality. "I mean, some of them are babes, aren't they?"

Jace regarded him. There was nothing special about Simon, he decided. He was just another geeky New York bred mundane, with not a drop of honorable quality in him. There was no competition coming from _this_ direction. No harm in answering the question. "Some of them, maybe."

" _Awesome,"_ said Simon.

Clary frowned.

"So," Jace said, sliding off the porch railing and landing gracefully on his feet. Simon's mouth dropped open. "Are we going to search the house, or not?"

"I'm game," said Simon eagerly, scrambling to his feet. Jace noticed that he took his position a little closer to Clary than he liked. "What are we looking for?"

Once again, Jace's eyebrows shot up. His forehead was beginning to hurt. "We?" he asked, adding a sinister undercurrent to his voice that made the mundane flinch. "I don't remember inviting _you_ along."

He made the mistake of glancing at Clary, and the phrase " _if looks could kill"_ came into his mind. " _Jace,"_ she snapped, and he raised his hands in surrender.

"Just joking," he said lightly, smiling at her. He stepped aside to let her by to the door. "Shall we?"


	8. Chapter 8

They stepped into a small storage room, though it seemed more of a forest of books and dust than any sort of storage facility. Novels and paperbacks of all genres were stacked one on top of another and piled together into cardboard boxes marked with purple pen. "Fiction", "Fantasy", "Memoirs".

Jace cringed at the way everything was disorganized and tossed around. For a bookstore owner, Luke sure didn't take care of his books. In two to three months, each of these would be moldy and ripped. He thought of his own room, neat and tidy and _organized,_ with a small smile.

Clary, however, didn't seem to mind the mess. She ran her hand along the tops of the books absentmindedly, as if reminiscing all the good times she must have had here. She had a family, with Luke and Simon and her mother. She had always been loved. And now, Jace's world had taken that from her, along with so much else.

He turned away, sudden guilt twisting his insides. As he did, something caught his eyes. The glint of metal, dusted with a dried reddish substance. His blood ran cold.

"The apartment's through here," said Clary, moving towards a door at the other end of the room. Jace caught her arm and held her back, his fingers wrapping the circumference easily.

'Wait."

Both Simon and Clary looked at him quizzically, though to his gratification Cary's gaze had more trust in it than the mundane's. "Is something wrong?" she asked nervously.

"I don't know." Apprehensive, he slid between two bookshelves and gave a low whistle at the sight before him. "Clary, you might want to come over here and see this."

Looming over the piles of books was a wall, but slightly different than the others. This wall had no posters or cheap oil paintings. Instead, a pair of dented manacles were sunk into the plaster, a coating of dried blood covering the metal surface. Cracks as deep as his index finger streamed out from the holes in the wall. They reached out like long, spindly fingers towards the corners of the room.

Clary followed him, squinting. "It's so dark-"

Ah. Of course. Mundanes by nature did not have the eyesight that Shadowhunters did, but that was mostly due to lack of training. Clary had lived like a mundane for fifteen years; her eyes were not used to pitch darkness. Jace slipped a hand into one of his numerous pockets and brought out his witchlight, whom he had christened Godfrey. Holding Godfrey in one hand, he climbed up onto a wooden box and gave the stone a light squeeze.

A burst of blinding light, rivaling that of a supernova, shot from between his fingers. Jace blinked away the dizziness with ease, but Simon and Clary stood grimacing below him, eyes squeezed shut.

"Ouch," said Simon.

Jace chuckled. Clary, shading her eyes, glanced up at him. "Witchlight," he said, mostly to her.

"Show-off," Simon muttered bitterly.

Clary didn't seem to hear. She had moved her gaze to the horror behind Jace, to the manacles in the wall and the blood. Her eyes widened. "Are those-?"

"Manacles." Simon moved next to her. "That's, ah..."

Clary glared daggers at him. "Don't say 'kinky.'" Her voice was like steel. "This is Luke we're talking about."

Jace reached up to the metal loops and brushed two fingers along the inside. He felt not the smooth, cold surface of finished steel, but the rough texture of dried blood. When he drew back, his fingers were coated with the red powder. "Blood," he confirmed. "And look." The three of them directed their gazes to the where the manacles had been sunk into the wall. The plaster strained and bulged outwards.

"Someone tried to yank these things out of the wall," he said grimly. "Tried pretty hard, by the looks of it."

Clary looked at him, alarmed. "Do you think Luke is all right?"

Jace glanced at her and lowered the witchlight. "I think we'd better find out."

The apartment was no cleaner than the storeroom had been. If anything, it was even messier. Double rows of books were stacked on each shelf, haphazardly and without any particular order. Piles of mysteries and fantasy were mixed in with thriller. Poetries were half tucked into dictionaries and thesauruses. Dimly, Jace wondered how Luke kept track of everything.

"I think he's still around," Simon called from the doorway to the kitchenette. "The percolator's still on and there's coffee here. Still hot."

Jace tensed. He expected Luke to round the corner any moment, to step into the apartment living room and catch them red-handed. All the explanations, all the formalities by the Clave...it made his head spin. The other two didn't seem to be as concerned.

Clary crossed the hall and disappeared in a room. Simon wandered away, too, leaving Jace alone in the living room. Unable to shake the feeling of unease that hung over him like a thundercloud, he resorted to searching the piles of books for any clues.

Many of the books were fantasy, and many of those were to do with magical creatures. Sultry vampire novels, bone-chilling werewolf tales, finely woven threads from ancient tomes telling about the Devil's nature, stories of warlocks and witches and faeries and _angels._ And God. There were few books on the lesser seen creatures; phoenixes, dragons, goblins, and such.

"Interesting choice, Luke," murmured Jace. The man seemed awfully curious about the Downworlder species of the Shadowhunter world.

He left the books and wandered away from the living room, down the same hallway Clary had used. The first open door he saw led to a small office, with a dark teakwood desk and a simple office chair. There was nothing on the desk that indicated any mundane problems; no bills, no paperwork, no warning notices. There were several antique artifacts, however, a collection more grandly displayed in the polished glass cases that lined all four walls of the office. Jace drifted over to them, his curiosity piqued.

Most of the artifacts were not of America, which was understandable, he supposed. America was born of other cultures; there was no "American" _culture,_ per se. At least not one as powerful as the ones in other parts of the world.

Jace could name several of the artifacts, most of them being religious and part of his studies at some point in his training. There was Maa Kali, the Hindu goddess of power and destruction; there was the Russian god of thunder, Perun; there was a cross; a wax figurine of Anubis, jackal-headed Egyptian god of putrefaction; even a model depicting the Hindu Trinity, Vishnu, Brahma, and Shiva. Luke seemed to take a special interest in Indian mythology.

He turned around, and something caught his eye. It was a green duffel bag stuffed under the chair, just as Simon had described it. It seemed rather full, and strange looking lumps protruded from it.

With a grunt, Jace heaved the bag up onto the desk top. Several objects within the bag made rather strange clanging noises, and he hurriedly unzipped it.

Objects tumbled from the opening in a waterfall, clattering onto the teakwood desk. Jace picked them up one by one and examined them, a tickle of suspicion taking root in his heart. The contents of the bag were all weapons, and rather _non-mundane_ ones at that. There was a ball and chain, several seraph blades, an extendable spear, and countless whips like the one Isabelle kept coiled around her ankle. Chakrams were littered everywhere, their razor-sharp spikes digging into the thick fabric of a set of clothes tucked at the bottom. Now extremely uneasy, Jace picked one up.

The office door opened and he glanced over his shoulder. Clary stood in the doorway, dressed in a pair of sandblasted cords and a worn blue shirt with Chinese characters across the front. He had to admit, the new outfit suited her a lot better than Isabelle's clothes had.

He held up the metal disk. "It's a chakram," he explained as she drew closer to him. "A Hindu weapon. You whirl it around your finger before releasing it. They're rare and hard to use. Strange that Luke would have one." He looked back at the bag. "They used to be Hodge's weapon of choice back in the day. Or so he tells me."

"Luke collects stuff," said Clary, gesturing towards a glowing rosewood screen crafted with a distinct, delicate Chinese style. "Art objects. You know, pretty things."

He nodded and set the chakram aside gently. The light from a lamp on the desk caught the razor-sharp edges of the weapon. It seemed to glow, like a knife-edged bronze star. Ignoring the shiver down his spine, he reached into the duffel bag and drew out a cracked photo-frame from among the clothes at the bottom.

In the photo was Luke, standing solid and smiling, one muscled arm around Jocelyn Fray's waist. Beside Jocelyn was Clary, the miniature of her mother. Both had vibrant jade eyes and scarlet curls, though Jocelyn's were tied up in a messy bun. They were the picture of a happy family; love practically radiated from their faces. The only blemish was the jagged crack spread across the glass, cutting their bodies in two.

"That's mine," said Clary, taking the photograph from his hand.

"It's cracked," he observed. She rolled her eyes.

"I know," she said. "I did that. I smashed it - when I threw it at the Ravener demon." She lifted her head slowly and stared at him. The realization hit them both at the same time.

The Ravener had attacked Clary in her apartment. Clary had fought it off with the photo, which should have still been at the scene of the fight. It being here meant...

"Luke's been back to the apartment since the attack," Clary whispered, eyes wide. "Maybe even today."

Jace drummed his fingers on the desk. "He must have been the last person to come through the Portal," he muttered, figuring everything out in his head. It made sense now. "That's why it took us there. You weren't thinking of anything, so it sent us to the last place ti had been."

She snorted. "Nice of Dorothea to tell us he was there."

"He probably paid her off to be quiet. Either that, or she trusts him more than she trusts us. Which means he might not be-"

"Guys!"

Jace whirled. Simon stood in the doorway of the office, sweating as if he'd just run a marathon. His eyes were almost popping out of his head, and his mousy brown hair stuck straight up in some places.

"Someone's coming," he panted. "Luke - and two other men."

Jace frowned. "Men?" He crossed over to the doorway and peered out. Heading up the hallway were three silhouettes. One was slightly stooped and ragged, but muscular: Luke. The other two were not defined bodies, as both were wearing cloaks.

He cursed under his breath. "Warlocks." He looked back at Clary, who stared at him in horror. "Is there some other way out of here?" he asked desperately. "A back door?"

Clary shook her head. Her skin was paler than normal, if that was even possible.

The voices were growing closer, as were the footsteps. Heavyset, loud, clomping. Not how Jace'd imagined warlocks' footsteps to sound like.

He looked about him desperately. His eyes rested on the Chinese rosewood screen, and some of the tension eased in his chest. _Shelter._ "Get behind that," he said, pointing at the screen. "Now."

Simon practically dove behind the screen, Clary following after, slightly more gracefully, with Jace bringing up the rear just as the office door opened. The conversation between the three men was now properly audible, but Jace paid little attention to the banter. He focused on keeping his movements as quiet as possible as he drew out his stele and drew a window in the screen. The rectangle turned clear, and Clary stifled a gasp.

Jace shook his head at her. _They can't see us through it, but we can see them._

Only one man was visible through the window. He was tall and stocky, with broad shoulders and gray stubble covering his strong jaw. A pair of glasses was perched on the end of his nose, giving him a librarian sort of look, but there was a dangerous air about him that made Jace's skin crawl. Judging by Clary's expression, this was Luke.

"Yes, feel free to look around," said Luke, in the direction of the other men. "Nice of you to show such an _interest."_

Someone chuckled. Then, the two other men walked into Jace's view. Both wore the reddish robes of warlocks, hoods pushed back. One was thin and tall, with a pointed gray beard and a trimmed mustache to go along with it. His teeth were blinding white, his eyes glittering with malice. The other was the opposite, short and burly with reddish hair and a pug nose.

They'd changed since he'd last seen them. But Jace could never forget those faces, not in a million years.

The men that had killed his father. The murderers of Michael Wayland.

"Those are warlocks," Clary whispered softly, fearfully. SHe glanced at him; for support or confirmation or reassurance, he didn't know.

"No," he whispered back. His hands began to tremble. "They're Shadowhunters. In warlock robes."


End file.
